#lofty x flex

[kevingotabigasschin]

Okay but can we all agree that Lofty's Banana Tree was just about Lofty trying to impress his crush.

[merakiui]

moros's looking glass.

yandere!overblot!riddle x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, death, victorian era, obsession, attempted captivity, arranged marriage, threats of violence, restraints, non-consensual touching and kissing note - after the death of your husband, you are left to sift through his estate. you'll soon find some ghosts refuse to remain in their graves.

To the esteemed Lady of the Rosehearts Estate: It is with a shrouded heart that I write to inform you of Lord Rosehearts’s untimely passing. It is a most unfortunate occasion, and for such reasons I must implore you to return from your seaside retreat with great haste. 

Mrs. Rosehearts’s bare hand comes down so suddenly that you hardly have any chance to brace yourself before it makes contact with your cheek. A harsh smack resounds throughout the hall, echoing within your brain until it’s all you can process. The sting that follows warms your tender skin and, though you wish to soothe it with a gentle caress, you remain stone-faced and stiff before her, a mere statuette who has been frozen in time. 

“Such insolence is unforgivable,” she seethes, swiping her glove from her butler, who holds it out with his head bowed and shoulders hunched. She fits her hand inside the pristine fabric and flexes her fingers momentarily before turning her fiery gaze back on you. “You were well aware of the ailment that consumed my dear Riddle and yet you abandoned him in his time of need! You are the lady of this house. It is your duty to remain here! Must the implication be branded on your very bosom for you to recognize it?!” 

“My deepest apologies, madam.” You lower into a perfect curtsy. “I did not possess enough foresight to know that this might happen. For that, I am truly regretful.” 

He was already at death’s door. A sickly body is meant for the hands of higher powers, or so they’ve said. I suppose this is the inevitability of fate.

“I have always been of the opinion that you were inadequate for my son,” she snaps. “If it weren’t for your family’s status, I’d have had you pulled from his life before you could ruin it further like the vapid weed you are.”

With a huff, she strides past you.

You remain in the hall, comforted by the soft tock of the old grandfather clock.

It’s not my fault your son was sickly, you think, scowling at the floor tiles. But you refuse to allow this to darken your mood. Gathering yourself, you straighten your posture and smooth the sting in your cheek with a few consoling pats.

I am (Name) Rosehearts, lady of this fine estate. I shall not waver in the face of a monstrous mother.

Though your union was one of arrangement, it took some time to convince Mrs. Rosehearts. She only conceded after her son had, quite literally, begged her. Your parents’ social status and fortune were quite persuasive as well. It was your late husband who argued with her, day and night, for the right to wed you.

“Mother, I have fancied no other to the extent I do Lady (Name). Should you come between us, I shall take her and we will be wed elsewhere—with or without your approval.”

Not wanting to lose her pride and joy and faced with the boundless prosperity boasted by the arrangement, she submitted to his demands. Thus, you were wed. You shall never forget the disdain scrawled on her wrinkled countenance as she watched you from her place in the pews. She disapproved of your dress, your disposition, your very existence. There was no part of you that could please her, but she had no choice. For Riddle’s sake, she would have to acquiesce.

Now that he’s no longer of this world, you’re feeling the force of her frosty hatred more directly. She has, by her own standards, every reason to dislike you. You could not conceive an heir to carry on the legacy. You could not be there to assist Riddle while he was on his deathbed. You could not measure up to her lofty expectations of what a proper wife and lady should be. You could not be pretty enough. The list is endless.

“My lady, the photographer is waiting,” the butler pipes up, nodding in the direction of the room.

“I understand. Thank you.”

You inhale all of your negativity, allow it to fester within your lungs, and then you expel it in a long exhale.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

This is the busiest you have seen the silent, despair-tinged halls of the Rosehearts Manor. Shadows creep along floral, cream-colored wallpaper, and the curtains do well to keep the sun from poking its rays through the gloom. Your grip tightens on your lace shawl as you’re led through the foyer, and when you view the vaulted ceiling it seems to spiral into never-ending darkness. Photographs are turned over to protect those in the film who are still living. The clocks are all stopped at three in the morning—supposedly the time at which Riddle gave his final breath. Every reflective surface has been enveloped in black cloth, and every funeral attendant you pass offers sympathetic bows and curtsies. Your nose crinkles at them, but you nod your acknowledgement and continue down the hall. 

Riddle is poised on the sofa, his arms folded primly in his lap. His face is colored in a sickly pallor, and he’s dressed in his best suit. If it weren’t for how deathly still he is, you’d think he was full of life. Glassy greys stare listlessly ahead. You peer into them. He does not blink or recognize your presence.

It occurs to you that he truly is dead.

Mrs. Rosehearts is quick to shoo you away. “Distance! You’ll pollute the air near my Riddle!”

You offer her a cordial simper. “Wherever shall I sit?”

She wrinkles her nose at you but gestures to the spot beside him. “You are his wife, so you must sit at his side here.”

“Very well.” You lower onto the cushion. Riddle is arranged to lean against you. He is cold and stiff, almost like a doll. His soft hair brushes your cheek. “And what of you, madam?”

“You are to be photographed first, after which I shall replace you. Then, we’ll both be photographed.”

“If it pleases,” you reply, looking towards the camera. Gently, you close your hand over Riddle’s gloved one.

Forgive me, Riddle. I should have returned from the sea sooner, but I was cowardly and could not bear to face you as you withered away. It is with great shame that I wear this mourning dress.

Your photo is taken. For the rest of the ordeal, you remain in your head. The shuffling of bodies is drowned out, for you focus only on your husband as he’s situated on the sofa beside his mother. 

Riddle wouldn’t have wanted that, you think, but then you pause. What would he want?

You can scarcely say.

Afterwards, Riddle is placed in his coffin, his eyes shut, and carried feet-first from the house. You accompany the procession, everyone following the solemn hearse in its travels. There is a hollow in the ground, where a group of men lower the death box. They work silently and diligently to shovel soil and fill the hole. You stand off to the side, watching from behind your veil. You don’t shed tears, but neither does Mrs. Rosehearts.

It is a chilly, autumn day devoid of birdsong and sunshine.

A laurel wreath is hung on the door following the funeral, and an ornament fashioned out of his hair alongside his photo are kept enclosed in a locket pin. You hold it in your hands at all times, tucking it beneath your pillow when you sleep, cherishing this piece of him. You visit his grave just as frequently as it is guarded. Every now and then, you expect the bell aboveground to ring, signaling life from below. It never does.

Riddle left his entire estate to you. His mother could fume as she pleased, but the validity of his penmanship could not be denied. He explicitly wrote: To my wife, Lady (Name) Rosehearts: You are granted all mortal possessions within my estate as well as ownership to the property. Do with it as you like.

Your relationship with Riddle, while not free of its strains, was mostly amicable. You played your parts well enough. Even so, it bewilders you that he would leave you so much. You always assumed he’d gift it to his mother, as she seemed to have a hand in every aspect of his existence—his death included. She planned the funeral and the burial well in advance, arranged the photographer, even the outfit he was to wear.

Now, dressed in black crepe, you wander aimlessly through a quiet, covered house and wonder what you should do with so much empty space. There are still rules you must follow, of course, each one aligning with mourning customs. But now that you don’t have your husband to enforce them, you feel…lost.

Illuminated by candlelight, your reflection follows you as you walk past an uncovered mirror, trapped in silent reverie.

And then you stop.

An uncovered mirror?

In a horrified panic, you set the candlestick down to gaze at yourself in the glass.

This can’t be! All of the mirrors must be covered! What happened?!

You scramble to shroud it, your heart pounding restlessly like a war drum. For a while you stand there, waiting for something. You anticipate a shout from the shadows: Don’t you know you are expected to cover each and every reflective surface in the wake of death? Do you want to be pulled into the grave next?! Nothing happens, though. The house remains perfectly still. 

You think you hear someone breathing shallowly, but then you realize that’s you. Your chest heaves as you take in big gasps of air.

No one will know, you remind yourself, gradually calming your frazzled nerves. The mirror is covered. That is the end of that.

The grandfather clock’s midnight chime echoes down the hall. Sighing, you lift the candlestick and carry on.

“I shall retire to bed,” you tell the darkness, climbing the stairs. Riddle’s room is kept sealed, a place stuck in permanence. You refuse to disturb his things, lest you dampen his spirit, and so you beeline for your room. It’s directly across from his. When he was alive, he insisted you sleep at his side despite the bed customs between couples. Stubbornly, you refused. You recall the dismal glimmer that darkened his eyes whenever you’d decline. He would always promise the same thing—

“Should you need the warmth of another body, I am here to receive you. Forever and always.”

Pulled from your reminiscing, you turn sharply on your heel and raise the flame to light the end of the hall.

“How strange. I was certain…” You peer over the bannister at the foyer below. “Riddle, have you come home?”

Silence is your only reply.

“Foolish,” you chide, contenting yourself with the facts. “He rests peacefully in his grave.”

Burrowing into your woolen shawl, you depart for your bedroom.

In an empty house, swathed in the quilted duvet, you drift off into dreamless slumber.

It’s not the clock or the cold that jerks you from sleep. Rather, it’s the screeching noise that grates on your ears. You blink through the dark, only to cringe moments later when someone drags their nails over glass. You almost allow yourself to fall back into the sheets when you realize there shouldn’t be any human disturbances here, for you’re the only one in this house.

A mouse, perhaps?

But even you know that’s impossible, no matter how much you want to believe such faulty logic.

Throwing the covers off, you search blindly for the candlestick at your bedside. You fumble with the match, shivering like a frightened fawn, but eventually flame brightens the space. Now equipped with light, you peek outside your room, searching either end of the hall just in case. No one’s there, but the scratching continues. Incessantly, almost maddeningly, as if whoever’s doing it is trying to escape.

Nails on…glass. On glass.

Glass.

It’s coming from Riddle’s room.

The mirror!

You shuffle towards the door, only to stop short just as your foot steps in something sticky.

You lift your leg and shine the light on it. A black substance that appears to be some sort of molten tar or ink drips from your sole. With a gasp, you drag your foot upon the floor in hopes of getting rid of it.

“Ugh! How filthy!”

Resolving to wash it later, you stomp over to the door, yank it open, and poke your head inside. A rush of cold air barrages your face, whistling through the crack and out into the corridor. You stumble away in a daze. The scratching persists, angrily now, in a desperate sort of fashion. 

“Riddle?” you call out, your voice subdued and shot through with fear. “I… I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’d like to warm myself with you, if you’ll allow it.”

Just like that, the house stills. Shakily, you hold the candle out to light a portion of his room.

“I never should have left you. It must have been terribly lonely here. Lonely and cold… I’ve betrayed you in life, but in death I will be here to look after you. Forever and always. So… So please rest peacefully.”

The tip-tapping of a sharpened nail against the glass almost startles you out of your skin. You realize then that the shroud has fallen away from the mirror. 

If I must look upon it… Oh, but I’d rather not… Oh, but I must!

Steeling yourself, you burst into the room and brandish the candlestick. Thankfully, there are no monsters or humans to scare you. No ghosts to be banished. No intruders to chase off. Instead, you see yourself in the mirror.

Or…an approximation of you. Not quite a doppelgänger in appearance. This version of you is wearing soaked rags, tattered and tired, but she has your eyes. They’re unmistakable as they stare back at you.

You set the candlestick on the bedside table and inch closer to the mirror.

“Peculiar,” you whisper, reaching for the glass just as your reflection does. “Surely this isn’t me. I look ghastly!”

Your fingers brush the surface and, in a stroke of shock, just as the grandfather clock below chimes the hour, your hand goes through. Before you can think to pull away, something on the other side tugs at your wrist, frigid fingers coiling tightly. With a shriek, you resist and claw wildly at the air, stretching to grab hold of the bed. You manage to grasp the edge of the blanket, which is pulled free from its neat placement, just as you’re dragged through the mirror.

All that’s left of you is the locket pin, having fallen to the floor in a clatter during the scuffle.

You open your eyes on a room colored black and white. It looks like yours, but something is different. It doesn’t feel like yours. It doesn’t even appear lived in. Almost as if it’s been sealed like a crypt, kept in pristine condition as it awaits an owner who will never return.

Where am I? you wonder, closing your hands around your shawl. It provides you with a modicum of comfort.

A book is lying on the vanity desk, the only thing that looks just slightly out of place in an otherwise tidy room. Curiously, you pick it up and open it to read the cover: Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

“Oh?”

You turn to a random page and skim through the words: I’ve waited ceaselessly for her return, so much so I’m beginning to lose count of the days. I’ve no inkling as to what’s real and what’s false. I see her in the stars, in the mirror, in my dreams… She is lost, I’m certain of this. No one will listen to me. They’ve condemned me to my solitude in this house, but soon I’ll swap places with him and then I’ll have her. It is only a matter of time. She will be mine.

This…cannot be my husband’s diary. Or was it? This is undoubtedly his penmanship.

Surely your husband wasn’t seeing another woman. He has always been honest and sincere. He has never raised his hand to you, nor has he ever threatened you. He is gentle, albeit rough and awkward around the edges, but he means well. Furthermore, you’ve never known him to keep diaries.

If he was embroiled in an adulterous affair, perhaps it was for the best. I could not hope to give him a child. I couldn’t bring him happiness or comfort. I am a failure of a wife, you think, running your thumb over the page.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Drying your eyes, you set the diary down and resolve to keep your strength for the exploration to come. Crying will not help you here. Not right now.

Never falter.

You push the door open and step out into the hall. The photographs are turned upright; mirrors are uncovered. The staircase is on the opposite end of the hall instead of directly around the corner like yours is back home. Even with the differences, the house reminds you of Riddle’s manor.

Strange… Everything is so similar and yet it’s not.

You creep down the stairs, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging high in the foyer. In fact, now that you’re descending, you’re beginning to notice just how many reflective surfaces surround you. Looking glasses of all shapes and sizes. Crystal decorations that reflect in dozens… It’s overwhelming. At every angle, your face peers back at you.

When you peel the curtain away to glance outside, you find an unsettling white space stretching on endlessly.

Where have I found myself?

You trot down the hall, searching the portraits for any indication of the master of the house. Instead, all you see is yourself. The other faces have been blotted out in dark ink.

This is not my home, you realize with a shiver.

The further you venture, the clearer it becomes that someone lives here. Despite the manic decor, there is not a speck of dust or a hint of disrepair. Someone is here, and they’re looking after this property.

You round the corner, acquainting yourself with a semi-familiar layout, and that’s when you find him. Your husband.

He’s hanging up another portrait with meticulous precision. This is a painting of you. It reminds you of the one your Riddle had commissioned. Only this one depicts you in the same decrepit fashion you saw before you were coaxed through the mirror.

This can’t be… Do my eyes deceive me? Is this truly—

“Riddle?”

His hands fall away from the frame, and he turns to look at you. Ruby-red eyes widen in recognition and then delight. He swoops in like a falcon, covering the distance in quick strides to gather you in his arms.

“My beloved! Oh, what wonderful fortune!” he cries, embracing you tightly. “You’ve come back to me! At long last, you’re here… You’re really here in flesh and blood! Oh, my love, sweetest rose, welcome back.”

If you were to ever meet your husband again, you were certain he’d have an earful for you, a long lecture of societal and personal expectations husband and wife are meant to adhere to. But this Riddle is…happy. He doesn’t seem angry or disappointed at all.

Rather woodenly, you wrap your arms around him. “You’re…not cross?”

“Whyever would you think that?” He pulls away from you and runs his hands up your arms, as if to assess the authenticity of your appearance.

You stare at his face. He looks like Riddle. But… Well.

He doesn’t feel like Riddle. Your Riddle—the grey-eyed Riddle—was awkward in his affections. He would never hug you so openly. He would never touch you without your approval first. He was considerate and well-mannered. Furthermore, he never called you by any endearing terms. You were always Lady (Name) to him.

Your hands close around his face to hold him still. “Your eyes—”

He blinks and suddenly the red was never there. “My eyes?”

Am I dreaming?

“Are you certain this is real?”

He smiles. “You must still be clinging to the vestiges of sleep. I assure you this is all very real.”

“So you’re truly Riddle? My Riddle?”

“Your Riddle. Always and forever.”

Tears well up in your eyes. You sink to your knees. “Oh, Riddle… Riddle, I’m so sorry. If I had just come back sooner… If I hadn’t been so scared—I couldn’t face you! I didn’t want to. I…didn’t wish to see you suffering so. It hurts…”

“My dear…” He lowers to your height and brushes your tears away with his thumb. His eyes soften with an intense fondness. “How fervently I’ve missed your voice. How desperately I’ve longed to hold you in my arms.”

“I can’t fathom it—how can it be?” you mutter, hesitant to touch him again lest he be turned to dust before your eyes. “You… You’re alive?”

“I’ve always been alive.”

“But you—your condition! You’ve been ill. It…” You inhale a sharp breath. “Your ailment worsened when you married me.”

“Do you blame yourself?” Before you can answer that, he takes hold of your chin and tilts your head. “Don’t. The fault does not lie with you. It never has.”

And then he fits his lips on yours in a kiss so sweet and soulful it momentarily rekindles your hope in romance. Shocked, you stumble back on the floor, but he just surges forward to continue kissing you. It’s passionate and hungry; he nibbles at your lip and licks into your mouth, leaving you panting and scrabbling for purchase. You cling to his suit—the same suit he was buried in.

He breaks away for breath, and you inhale mouthfuls of it. “Wait—”

Another kiss, this one longer than its predecessor. Your fingers curl into his shoulder. He pulls back.

“Riddle—”

He tugs your shawl from your shoulders in lustful impatience. You yelp when you feel his hands on your thighs, slyly sliding beneath your dark nightgown.

“Riddle!” You gasp, scandalized, and push him away. Breathing heavily, you yank the strap of your gown over your shoulder. “Just what’s gotten into you?!”

“I’ve missed you,” he confesses, gathering your hands in his. “I’ve waited for your return for so long—too long! And now you’re finally here… You’ve finally come back to me.”

My Riddle was never this forward.

“You must know I cannot give you what it is you want. I’m dead inside, a tragedy your mother is all too keen to remind me of.”

A frown tugs at his lips. “Unfortunate as that may be, it does not offend me in the slightest and it shouldn’t. I love you, with or without child.” He lifts your hand and places a gentle kiss upon the top of it.

You stare at him, horrified.

“S-Say that again, if you would…”

“I love you?” He raises his brow at you, confused. “With or without child, I love you. Always and forever.”

You drag your hand back, clutching it as if it’s injured. “I think…I might go for a stroll.”

He blinks back at you, one eye at a time. “Oh! Allow me to accompany you. It’s howling a gale out there. You would do well to change into attire fitting for the weather.”

“Of course. I’d love nothing more than to walk through the rose gardens with you. I do hope they haven’t started wilting.”

Riddle helps you up from the ground, drapes your shawl over your shoulders, and sends you on your way. You offer him a smile and turn to walk stiffly down the hall. The minute you’re out of sight, you sprint for the stairs, taking two at a time, and throw open the door to your room.

Your reflection meets you at the mirror. Without wasting another moment, you reach for her. Someone catches your wrist on the other side and tugs you through.

You’re spat out in Riddle’s bedroom in a heap of tangled limbs, your heart in your throat. The mirror shimmers with the real you. When you press your finger to the glass it doesn’t go through, but your finger touches its reflection.

“That was…strange,” you whisper, drawing away. You find the locket pin lying inches from your foot and you scramble for it, hastily prying it open to check its contents. The photo and lock of red hair remain untouched. “It was just a dream. A wild, whimsical terror.”

You rise to your feet and, after fixing the disturbed sheets, bid a final farewell to the room.

“Rest peacefully,” you say, shutting the door behind you. 

That was not my Riddle. My Riddle has never said he loves me before.

Following that night, you busy yourself with the curiosities of Riddle’s estate. In the three years you’ve lived here, you were unaware the house had so many secret spaces. Hidden doors that open into narrow passages and stairs. You’ve never had any servants, so you’re not sure why Riddle would need any of this. The house has been in the Rosehearts family for decades. As the legend goes, it was burned beyond repair and rebuilt with a better layout. A safer layout, Riddle would tell you when you questioned the tale.

“Safer for what?” you mutter, peeling wallpaper back to reveal the door to a thin crawl space. There’s never anything sealed within these rooms, but their existence is proof enough. If not for servants, these passages were meant to house secrets. “Did he know about this? He must have.”

Would Mrs. Rosehearts know? Oh, but I dread the thought of wasting ink on that insufferable woman.

You lower to your knees and peer inside the crawl space. “Hello? Is anyone home?” And then you laugh to yourself. “Are you hiding in there, Riddle?”

You receive no reply.

A Riddle with red eyes… I must have been so feverish that night, to dream a vision so crooked.

You stretch your arm inside and feel around for any hidden treasure. You expect to come away with cobwebs and spiders, not a leather-bound book.

“Huh… Perhaps I’ve been away from the manor much too long,” you mutter, sitting with your back to the wall. You open the book, wondering what its contents could be that would merit this treatment.

Books ought to be treated in the same manner we treat each other—with respect. They are filled with boundless knowledge, and they provide insight into fascinating wonders we may yet comprehend, Riddle used to say.

“‘To destroy them would be to destroy the wisdom they offer,’” you say, finishing the rest of his quote. A smile pulls your lips up. “He loved books. Riddle would never seal any away.”

You peel it open to the first page, where you find four unsettling words.

Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

It’s a diary. Riddle’s diary.

Suddenly, the house is colder and unwelcoming, as if the very foundation disapproves of what you’ve just unearthed from its bowels. You’ve never known Riddle to keep a diary. And yet…

Tentatively, you flip through the pages. It’s a log of his condition, you realize. He details his symptoms daily, every event outlined in neat, waltzing script. You weren’t aware of just how morbid his condition was. At some point, though, he begins to catalogue other happenings.

I’ve coughed up quite a monstrous thing, he writes. I cannot fathom what it is, but it has the consistency of ink, almost. It is thick and foul in my mouth. It stains my sheets and colors my teeth. Next time it happens, I shall gather enough to test whether it truly is ink.

Then another page: I cannot employ servants because I fear he will tip poison into their ears. Thus, I’ve deigned to do everything myself. I’ve mustered enough strength and willpower to stand and cover most of the mirrors. So long as Lady (Name) stays away…

And another page: He is looking at me again, knocking at the mirror. Even as I write this, I must remain vigilant. You must wonder why I don’t shatter the mirror and put an end to this madness. Rather than sever the connection, I fear it would only provide an opening into our world. I hear him every night just as the clock tolls out the Witching Hours. He speaks of a malice most concerning. It is tiring and I think fondly of submitting, but I must protect Lady (Name).

And the final page, penned just days before his death: I fear the worst is happening. I cannot continue to research the face in the mirror. It has rendered me too frail. He has been studying me in the meantime, following me through the glass. He is a perfect reflection now, an expert copy. I’ve no inkling what this implies, but I suspect it cannot be anything pleasant. I’m going to seal my findings away with what little strength I have left so that it never falls into his hands. There must be some way to stop it… this infernal ringing in my ears… the blood filling my eyes…

A dried splatter stains the page, obscuring whatever was left of his words. You leaf through a few pages, searching for a proper explanation.

The face in the mirror? A perfect reflection? What is all of this? Just what was Riddle doing while I was gone?

You find it then, a list of what he believes to be fact, all outlined in an organized fashion.

Evidence of Fact

It is confined within reflective surfaces. It cannot step out into the mortal realm (or so I’ve yet to witness), but it can follow through mirrors so long as you look into it. Though the original must remain intact.

It is most active during the hours of midnight through three o’clock in the morning. To be referred to from here on out as the Witching Hours.

It has my voice and my face, but it is not me. You must remind yourself of this when you feel yourself losing control: He is not me, nor is he the shadow I cast.

It sees with red eyes and reaches with nightmarish claws. (A devil, perhaps?)

The substance I have been vomiting ceaselessly is indeed ink, but the reflection in the mirror refers to it as ‘blot.’ It is black and viscous. It reeks of rot.

It is undoubtedly after Lady (Name).

It calls itself Riddle.

You don’t really know your husband. You’ve never known him, in fact.

He was shouldering such a heavy burden all this time… All for my sake.

You hold the diary close to your chest.

If what he writes is true, then what I experienced that night… It wasn’t a dream but, rather, a supernatural occurrence. The reflection in the mirror calling itself Riddle—that must have been the Riddle I met. The one with red eyes. For a moment, I almost thought it was my Riddle. You run your finger over the cover of the diary. If that thing is the reason my Riddle is dead…

You don’t dare think any further.

Riddle noted that Reflection Riddle is most active during the Witching Hours. If you follow that logic then the mirror should open up between midnight and three every night, allowing you to cross into a world that reflects your own. You wonder if it’s the same for the other side. If it was, wouldn’t that mean Reflection Riddle could step out at any point and enter your world? You certainly hope he can’t.

Moros’s Looking Glass, reads the bookmarked tome in Riddle’s study, a (thankfully) mirrorless space that grants you total privacy, is said to be a powerful mirror that connects the mortal realm with that of the spirit realm. It is said that mortals who look upon Moros’s Glass are bound for death and should tread carefully when they hear three consecutive knocks from within their home. 

Not if but when. A certainty.

You turn to the chapter on Moros. “‘Gave people the ability to foresee their death…’” you read, frowning deeper as the text goes on. “‘Moros is a word meaning doom or fate. It is said that once you take Moros’s hand you can never turn back, for your death is already weaved into fate.’ No escape… Could that Reflection Riddle be Moros? That might give reason to why my reflection looked so twisted.”

You slump in the chair and sigh. “I’m sorry, Riddle… I never should have left you. I should have stayed. Perhaps then we could have worked together to understand this.”

Gritting your teeth, you wipe furiously at your eyes.

All this time, he was suffering and I ran away. All this time, he was thinking of me and my well-being, and I ran away.

Before you can openly bawl in his study, you remember the notes in Riddle’s diary.

It wants me. To what extent, I’m unsure. But if it truly does love me as it claimed… Surely it wouldn’t hurt me.

You don’t want to return to that strange world with its strange Riddle, but you need answers. If it killed your Riddle… You shut the book and place it back on the shelf.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Stringing the locket pin on an empty chain, you fasten it around your neck. That way, Riddle will always be close to your heart—a reminder that you are not alone. You rifle through your closet for appropriate attire, casting corsets and crinolines aside in favor of clothing that grants more freedom.

But I mustn’t look suspicious, you think, debating whether you should wear a chemise or a longer gown. You pull a pair of loose-fitting trousers from a drawer next. Perhaps… Oh, this will seem so indecent! If Riddle were here, he’d advise against it. But these will allow for movement should I need to flee fast. 

Seeing no other option, you choose the bloomers and a simple blouse, both in the classic color for mourning.

Ideally, I would prefer to never go back again, but I suspect I’ll be visiting more than once. Tonight, I’ll attempt to search for a weakness. There must be something I can exploit. A tension or a spot of blindness, perhaps? There’s that white space surrounding the manor. Perhaps I ought to try stepping outside?

You change in your room in front of a covered mirror and read through Riddle’s diary to refresh yourself on the foe you’ll be facing.

When the grandfather clock’s midnight toll reaches upstairs, you hide the diary under your pillow and cross the hall into Riddle’s room.

I refuse to call that thing my husband, you think hatefully. You are not Riddle. You will never be Riddle.

You kneel before the floor-length mirror and press your palm to the surface. A cold hand pulls you through.

I must remember not to overstay my welcome. You lift your trousers to peer at the pocket watch tied around your thigh. It is fifteen minutes past twelve. The window closes at three.

Throwing the closet doors open, which is packed full of well-tailored dresses and skirts, you grab a long woolen coat and fit your arms through the sleeves. You slide your feet into a pair of low-top heels. When you admire yourself in the mirror, you spy your waterlogged reflection looking back. She vanishes in a blink.

Descending the stairs, you call out for Riddle. “I apologize for the delay. I’m ready if you are.”

He pokes his head out from around the corner, a delicate smile gracing his pale features. Meeting you at the very bottom, he offers his arm.

“I’ve waited years for your return.” He laughs. “I can wait a few measly minutes.”

Minutes? Does time work differently here? Every clock aside from the watch fastened to my thigh is stopped at Riddle’s time of death. Perhaps this world’s sense of time is warped because of that. Or maybe Moros truly has no concept of time…

“Patience is a most admirable virtue, or so they say.”

“They speak the truth.” He leads you to the door. “You’ve come at a wondrous time. The roses are still in bloom. Though, regrettably, most of them have already closed up.”

“What little is left, I will be sure to cherish.” You pat his arm and smile. “Thank you for always taking such diligence to care for them.”

If there exists a reflection of Riddle, why haven’t I seen my reflection? Surely she isn’t just confined to the mirror…

The door opens and you brace yourself for the blinding white space. Instead, you’re greeted to the sight of a flourishing front yard. It looks nothing like your own, which leads you to wonder if Moros can only replicate the scenery within the house due to the limited field of sight provided by the mirrors. The rest of this—the gardens, the stone pathway, the hedges—it’s his imagination filling in the blanks.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” You tug him ahead, your hand easily sliding into his. “They’re quite red!”

“Aren’t they just?”

“Positively beaming with color,” you exaggerate even though you can’t see a speck of red. Everything here is black and white. The only red you’ve seen so far is the red in his eyes.

You gaze at the iron gates at the end of the property. “Riddle, dear, have we always had those gates?”

“We have.” His hand slides over yours. “To keep beauty in and filth out.”

“Filth?” You look at him incredulously. “What sort of filth?”

“Those who think it wise to flout the rules. I will not tolerate such flagrant displays of disobedience.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m sure you understand, my rose. There is no greater peace than that which is attained through order.”

“And what of exiting?”

“You’ve only just come back to me and now you speak of leaving?”

“I wouldn’t go alone. Do you not want to go into town? I quite like the circus.”

“You have everything you need here.” He kisses the top of your hand. “With me.”

So the boundary is the gate. Very well.

“I suppose that’s true. There is no greater bliss than seeing you again after so much time apart. Why would I ever want to leave?”

“Indeed. You shall never leave,” he murmurs, smiling.

Riddle takes you on a tour through monochrome gardens, pointing out all manner of delightful flora. You voice your acknowledgement when it’s necessary, but your mind is elsewhere.

I should find his diary again. I don’t believe I saw it on the desk when I came through the mirror.

You peer at Riddle’s face. He is not a fool. My Riddle was so bright. If Moros can replicate his physical form so seamlessly, then surely he knows of his intelligence.

“Riddle.”

“Yes, my rose?”

“I love you, too.”

His eyes widen. The admission must have genuinely shocked him, for his grey irises explode with red. But then he blinks it away and they’re back to grey. In these quiet gardens, he pulls you closer and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“And I love you. Most ardently.”

You smile and then you giggle. “Why did I leave you in the first place? It’s patently absurd.”

“A question I asked myself in cycles.” He drags his knuckle along your cheek. “Can the sea truly cure the morbs? Wouldn’t it have been better here? What can the sea offer that I don’t already have?” He clenches his jaw. “Why would you leave? Why?”

“Riddle… R-Riddle, you’re hurting me!”

He comes to his senses then and gazes at his hand closed tightly around yours. “Ah… Forgive me.” He loosens his hold and tries a relaxed smile. “Your arrival is most important. Anything that came before that is wholly insignificant.”

“Of course it is…”

He must know of my trip from Riddle. Perhaps it was mentioned in passing. I’m certain Moros doesn’t have Riddle’s memories. Despite being reflections, they are still separate entities. Or so I hope.

You return inside on account of being famished. Riddle insists on preparing dinner, claiming he’s practiced tirelessly in your absence and has been awaiting a chance to boast his skills. You allow him to do that and, while he works in the kitchen, you slink upstairs to check the time. It’s half-past two.

Just before you exit through the mirror, you poke around the room in search of the diary. It isn’t there.

Perhaps it’s in Riddle’s room?

You refer to the watch once more.

I have time. Just five minutes and then I shall be on my way.

You creep over towards Riddle’s room and, slowly, so slowly, reach for the door. Riddle’s voice permeates the air just then, calling up to you from the bottom of the staircase.

“(Name)? Dinner is almost ready!”

You press yourself against the wall just in case he can somehow see you. “Yes, thank you! Just one moment.”

Stuffing the coat and shoes inside the closet, you spare one final glance at the door before stepping through the warped surface of the mirror.

You emerge just a few minutes before three.

Much too close for my liking. You shut the pocket watch and run your hands through your hair. But that was enlightening. While not clear in its entirety, I understand the world I’m grappling with just a scintilla better.

In the coming weeks, you travel between worlds to gather as much information as possible. Riddle receives you with immense adoration every time, seemingly none the wiser to your periodic disappearances. The last time you went snooping around the second story, you realized the rooms were mostly empty and Riddle’s bedroom was locked.

You write your findings down in the empty pages in your husband’s diary: If the door is locked, he must know that whatever’s inside is of great importance. Therefore, he’s done well to keep it safe. Additionally, he appears to learn from my actions. When he’s startled, his eyes can’t remain grey. Now it’s as if he’s anticipated the shock and has taught himself to keep the façade. It is a most peculiar act. No weaknesses to detail as of yet.

You return to Riddle’s entries once more. Surely I’m missing something. There must be a weakness.

Briefly, you consider shattering the mirror. Riddle didn’t test his hypothesis regarding this method. Perhaps nothing will come of it and you’ll be rid of this menacing reflection. But then you’ll never know why your reflection looks the way it does. You’ll never know what killed your husband. You’ll never know who Reflection Riddle really is—though you certainly have your suspicions.

I must return.

When the clock announces the arrival of midnight, you step through the mirror. Only this time, when you step out of your room, Riddle is there and he doesn’t look pleased.

“Oh! Riddle—”

“What were you doing?”

“I…” You shut your mouth and fish through your brain in an attempt to recall what you said you’d be doing last time you were here. “I was changing.”

He scrutinizes you with narrowed eyes. “Into your night clothes? Did you not wish to take a stroll?”

“Oh, you must forgive me. I have been so weary… If it pleases you, perhaps we can have our stroll tomorrow?” You glance past him at his bedroom door and then reach for his hands. “Shall we sleep together?”

Riddle watches your face a moment longer. The tension in his figure relaxes, and he eventually smiles. “Nothing would make me happier.”

He guides you to your bed, but you stop him. “Your room. I’m most comfortable in your bed.”

“Is that so?”

“Verily.”

For a moment you think he’ll find some way to slither out of this, but then he’s pulling you through the door towards his room. His hand ghosts over the knob and it unlocks just like that. “I must warn you. It’s not in the…cleanest condition. I admit it was a reflection of my mind in the wake of your absence.”

“I’m certain it isn’t so terrible,” you assure, rubbing his arm consolingly. “Although… Riddle, if I may, what happened to me?”

“To you? Why, you left.”

“Yes, that is an irrefutable fact. But… It couldn’t have been the morbs.”

Riddle smiles thinly. His eyes fog over with an unrecognizable emotion. “I thought I lost you,” he explains, his hand on the knob. “I was certain you would never return.”

“But I’m here now. Whyever would you think that?”

“You died,” he says, his voice cracking. “A-At sea. You threw yourself into the sea.”

I…did that? Truly? But then it makes sense. The water dripping from your reflection. Her tattered dress. The strands of seaweed. But why? Why would I do such a thing?

“That’s why I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you. When you came back to me, perfectly whole and in one piece, warm and alive… I was so relieved. I’ll never let you go again.”

He opens the door and it becomes clear to you when you see a roomful of portraits and letters scattered everywhere. Your letters. Your pictures. Even your belongings. These aren’t mirror reflections. These are genuine artifacts from your world. The breath sticks in your throat. All of the letters you sent Riddle while you were away, never to receive a single reply, they’re all here, tucked away in their respective envelopes. And you know they’re yours because your signature dots each and every one, each stamp pasted on by your careful hands.

Lying on the bedside table is Riddle’s diary, where the passage you first read must be penned. The one in which he notes how long he’s waited. How very soon he’ll swap places with your husband and have you all to himself. How they’ve condemned him to this prison. They. Who is they? 

You understand it now. The sticky substance you stepped on the first night. The reflection of the other you. The Riddle who you thought couldn’t stand you and was having his silent rebellion disregarding all of your letters. It was the thieving reflection who crept into your world!

Your other self died so that you could take her place. And you know this is true because she is you, and in the midst of your melancholy back in your world you considered surrendering yourself to the sea.

“Riddle…”

“Sleep! Do pardon the dreadful state of this room.” He smiles and tugs you down onto the bed to tuck you in. “It’s late. You’ll never function properly if you neglect the moon’s call for bedtime.”

“Riddle!” You seize his wrist when he climbs into bed beside you. He blinks at you, one eye at a time. “Who…are you, exactly? You’re not my Riddle.”

He tilts his head at you. “But of course I am.”

“No… No, you’re not. My Riddle is—” you inhale shakily— “dead.”

His eyes rove over your features, flicking down to watch your hand curled around his wrist. He chuckles. “You must be so tired, my rose. Sleep. Come morning, all of this will have been a daydream lived in a daze.”

He pats the pillow and you lower yourself slowly. He follows your lead, wrapping the both of you in the fluffy blanket.

“I have always been your Riddle. Always and forever.”

“Right… Yes. Yes, of course. How…” You swallow thickly. “How foolish of me to think otherwise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping he’ll inevitably fall asleep. The pocket watch tied around your thigh continues to count out the minutes. You’ve no idea how much time has passed, but the longer you spend here the slimmer your window of escape gets. And Riddle just won’t fall asleep! His eyes remain open, observing you as you shift in and out of faux sleep. Eventually, you turn your back on him.

I cannot fall asleep here. I’ll be trapped.

“(Name)…”

Why won’t he sleep? Surely he’s tired… Do reflections feel exhaustion? They must!

“(Name)…”

You force yourself to remain calm, contenting yourself with the fact that he has to fall asleep soon.

But then there’s a hand on your arm, climbing up your shoulder like a spider on a web. His fingers drum along your sleeve.

“You’re not truly sleeping, are you?”

His voice is right in your ear, and you can hear the twisted smile in it.

You roll over onto your back. Riddle blinks down at you, still smiling that sticky, self-satisfied smile.

“You were anticipating my slumber, were you not?”

“In the hope that we might rest together, yes. Are you not tired?”

“How could I rest when I know you’re just going to slip away again?” He yanks the covers off and moves to grab the hem of your nightgown. In a panic, not wanting the watch to be revealed, you push him away, falling off the bed in the process. Landing with a thud, you pick yourself up and glimpse the time. Just ten minutes until three. You gasp and stumble towards the door.

“Stop!” he shouts, reaching for you. “Come back here! Don’t leave me!”

You yelp as something slimy coils around your ankle. You fall flat on your stomach, pulled back into the room without mercy. You thrash, kicking out blindly in hopes of untangling whatever’s found itself attached to your leg.

“Unhand me!” You grab at the door frame and pull yourself forward, grunting with the effort. “Don’t touch me!”

“You don’t get to leave! Not when I finally have you!”

You turn to look at him and bite back a terrified scream at the sight of him. He’s monstrous! The odious stench of death hangs heavy in the air. There’s that black substance again, oozing from his pores like an overfilled, soggy rag. He’s dressed differently, too, in clothes that bring forth images of decapitated royalty. The inky crown on his head and the spade-tipped Medici collar only cement this imagery. His hands are splayed with razor-thin claws, and suddenly you’re brought back to the night of that ominous tap-tapping against the glass.

The tendril coiled around your leg, you now realize, is an ebony, thorny stem.

“W-What are you?”

He grits his teeth. “Your husband.”

You reach for the stem and, pulling it taut, bite down roughly. Blot spatters your maw and it tastes rancid, but you chew through in spite of the taste. Riddle hisses at you. You manage to sever it just in time. Another vine shoots out after you and you slam the door shut before it can ensnare you.

“(Name)!” he roars from behind the door, his voice deeper and angrier. “You step through that mirror and I’ll tear you to shreds the next time you return! Do you hear me?! I’ll slaughter you!”

“I wish you luck in that endeavor because I won’t ever be back!”

The door is torn off its hinges then. When Riddle lunges for you, he narrowly misses your nightgown, instead grasping the chain around your neck. It snaps and the locket pin smashes to the floor.

“No!” You swoop down to grab it, but Riddle’s already swiped it for himself. Looking between that and the mirror, you scream a colorful word and dive for the mirror just as the clock below chimes out the hour.

You somersault into Riddle’s bedroom, your heart pounding wildly in your ribs, and feel along your body for the pendant. It isn’t there.

“No… No, no, no! Blast! I can’t… I need that locket!”

You whirl towards the mirror and this time it isn’t your reflection peering back. It’s that monstrous fiend!

He holds the chain up for you to see, grinning all the while. The locket twirls idly on the broken link. It’s an obvious taunt: If you want it, come and get it.

Your fingers curl around an iron candlestick, but you stop yourself just before you can bring it down against the glass.

I can’t break it. I need to get in, and he wants to get out. We both want something we can’t have.

You scowl at the mirror just as Riddle vanishes, and then your reflection—your real reflection, broken and despairing—is staring back. Falling to your knees, you hold your head in your hands and sob.

The next few days trickle by like the seemingly never-ending rainfall outside. You pen countless letters to friends, Mrs. Rosehearts, even Riddle himself, but they’re all ripped to shreds before you can sign them. You visit his grave, dressed in all black, crying behind your veil. 

“What am I to do, Riddle?” you whisper, clutching your parasol to shield yourself from the winter sun. “It’s an impossible foe. There is no weakness to be found…”

Your choke on your sniffle. No weakness but me. He would do anything for me, would he not? And if he can’t have me… At once, you shake your head. No. I’m not going to resort to such drastic, harmful measures. In the face of adversity, I shall stand tall and proud. I will never falter. I will never waver. That monster killed my husband. I refuse to be cowed into submission by such malevolence!

You bend down and place your gloved hand over the soil. “I never did thank you, Riddle.” A small smile pulls at your tired, sleep-deprived face. “Thank you for all that you have done. You may rest in ataraxy, for I shall put an end to the beast who tormented you in such unspeakable, barbarous ways.”

Smoothing down your skirts, you depart for the Rosehearts Manor.

After eating as much as you can stomach, you spend the rest of the day catching up on lost sleep. With your body and mind now refreshed, you approach the problem from a new angle. A physical altercation is impossible, and you’re certain it will be impossible to truly kill him. If you can’t fight, then you shall talk instead. Riddle was a logical man. Though that monster will never be your Riddle, surely he holds some shred of logic.

And in the event that he can’t be reasoned with…

You touch the pointed tip of a knife and frown. Can I bring myself to wound the creature who wears my husband’s face?

Even though you’re doubtful, you stow it in your satchel with the rest of your tools and trinkets.

This ends tonight, once and for all, even if it kills me.

You sit in front of the mirror and await the tell-tale chime of midnight.

When the mirror’s surface warps and twists, you harden your nerves into that of unbreakable steel.

In the face of adversity…

“Blast it! I’ll kill him,” you snarl and step through the mirror.

It is eerily quiet when you exit on the other side. The house is in shambles, as if a nasty storm has come through and torn up everything in its path. The wallpaper is peeling in thin curls, the portraits are hanging crooked, the mirrors are shattered, and blot paints everything in black. It drips from the ceiling like saliva from a mutt’s mouth.

Swallowing your disgust, you tiptoe out into the hall. Riddle isn’t in his room. In fact, there isn’t much of a room to admire. The door has been thrown against the wall, and everything is tattered. It occurs to you that this Riddle’s love is wrong. It is not love. It is an obsession driven by the greedy desire to possess. You gather what letters you can salvage and stuff them in your satchel, even the ones from Riddle you never received.

What iniquitous meddling. To intercept our communication in such a way… You are nothing more than a parasite that must be snipped away.

Your journey takes you down the stairs. You’re careful to avoid the blot sticking to the steps as you descend, gracefully maneuvering around it. The deeper into the house you venture, the thicker the air becomes. You pinch your nose and squint through the dark haze, pushing aside low-hanging branches and vines. Inky roses sprout from the walls, twisting towards you as you approach. You duck to avoid them.

Moros is waiting for you at the dinner table. It’s set for two. Flowers twine around his seat. It looks more like a grand throne. Yours is much the same.

A Queen needs a King, even when both are destined to fall.

“Riddle.”

“If you would, have a seat. I believe we have an exchange to make.” Your locket drops down in front of your face, dangling from a stem. You reach for it and it shoots back up towards the ceiling. “No, no. That’s not how reasonable conversations are had, (Name). If you think yourself wise, sit down and listen.”

You scowl at him. “What do you want?”

“You’re an intelligent lady. My counterpart fancied that side of you most ardently. He wrote about you often, spoke of your marvelous brain.” He rests his elbows on the table and props his chin on his folded hands. “So you must already know what it is I seek.”

“You… You murdered my husband.”

He slams his hand on the table. The plates clatter from the force. “I didn’t kill him! He withered away of his own accord!”

“What did you do?”

“Sit down.”

“What did you do?”

“Sit. Down.”

“What in blazes did you do to him?!”

“I said, sit down!” Vines shoot out from the darkness. You’re tugged into your seat and held still, posture perfect. A smile twists itself onto his ink-stained lips. “Was that so difficult?”

He waves his hand and more vines come down from the ceiling to grasp the cutlery. You watch as they cut a portion of whatever shapeless filth is on your plate. Refusing to comply, you keep your mouth shut.

“Not hungry? A shame. It’s strawberry. You enjoy strawberries, do you not? Ah, and I suppose that husband of yours fancied them something fierce.”

“Please…” You look at him helplessly, tears shimmering in your glossy gaze. “What did you do to my Riddle? Why did you hurt him?”

“Two cannot exist within the same space. I was never going to be allowed to stay in your world with him around. He was already bound for the grave.” He chuckles to himself. “Rather, it was quite fortuitous that you left for the sea. If you had stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to work so efficiently.”

“So you—you’re the reason he—”

“My (Name) left me stranded here in this hell, but you… You’re perfect. Your love is pure and soft. You are the one.”

“So what are you, truly? You’re not Riddle.”

A flower unfurls before you, its petals drying your tears. He hums.

“You’re mistaken, my rose. Who else am I if not the Riddle you cherish so dearly?”

“You’re Moros, are you not?”

He tilts his head, and you can hear the audible crack of his neck.

“Moros, an entity of doom—of death. Riddle saw you in the mirror when—”

“Not me,” he corrects. “He saw himself—what was to become of him, at least. He also saw you, here with me. This is the very outcome he was hoping to prevent.” Moros barks out a cruel laugh. “And look where it got him! A wooden bed beneath the soil. Oh, but I do understand, though. You’re worth fighting for. Dying for, even. He loved you sincerely, but I shall love you perfectly.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Nooo.” He waggles a vine at you. “I’m your husband. There’s a difference. One is imperfect, a failure. The other… The other is better, an improvement.”

“Oh, forgive me. A parasite.”

“No,” he says, stressing the word. “Try again.”

“A fiend.”

“(Name), my patience is thin as a hair.”

“I will never call you my husband, Moros.”

The vines tighten their grasp just as his face reddens with frustration. His vermillion eyes flash dangerously. You wheeze as the life is squeezed from your lungs.

“S-Stop—I can’t—can’t breathe! Please! R-Riddle… Riddle, please!”

At once, your flowery restraints retreat. He tries a smile next, but it’s tense. As if he could snap at any moment.

“There you are. (Name), my rose, I must say, it is dreadful manners to call your husband by another man’s name. So dreadful, in fact, that it incites the cold-blooded rage in my very veins. If I wished, I could paint these walls in your red. If I wished, I could tear you apart, limb from precious limb, and string you up among my flowers. But I won’t because I love you, and it would cause me immeasurable grief to lose another (Name).”

“Enough prattling. I want my locket.”

“And I have told you before that is not how you negotiate, my dear. Proper etiquette at the table dictates that you must maintain respectable eye contact, and you must never slouch. Nor should you chew with your mouth open, and if you wish to speak you must not mumble or twiddle your thumbs. You must not whine like a petulant child either. If you wish to have your locket—and I cannot fathom why—you must outline your terms. I do realize you’ve been away from your husband far too long, so perhaps he never taught you any manners. Under my rule, that shall change. Under my rule, you will be perfect just as I am.”

You tamp down a foul-mouthed tirade. “Very well. In exchange for the locket, I will give you myself.”

“In what way?”

“In any way you please, but you must first answer my questions. Truthfully.”

He eyes you dubiously. “What might those be?”

“Can you leave through the mirror?”

“I can, but only when you’re asleep.”

“What’s stopping you from existing in my world now that Riddle is gone?”

Moros smiles and the locket falls onto the table, right in front of you. “Your mourning ornament. So long as a piece of him exists in those walls, I am trapped here. As you can imagine, it’s immensely vexing.”

“And who trapped you here?”

“Why, it’s been so long I’ve no recollection. Perhaps a clever witch or a simple mistake… I do so detest living within this dull looking glass.”

“So even if I’m to keep my locket, you wouldn’t be permitted to cross over.”

“Correct. But why do that when you’re already here? You can keep those measly strands of hair. I don’t want your world if you’re not in it. So long as you’re here with me, I can stomach these colorless, glass confines.”

“Then… You’ll give me the locket and I’ll stay here?”

“Indeed.”

“And you’ll release me? I won’t be imprisoned in this…grotesque garden of yours?”

“Will you flee? Ah, but I surmise you couldn’t manage that. Not after three.”

“One more question.”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“What happens if the mirror breaks?”

“No further questions.”

“Answer me! What happens if the mirror breaks, Moros?”

“That’s not my name!”

“Tell me, or else I’ll—” You stop yourself, lower your voice, and soften the anger in your face. “Riddle, dear, please… I don’t want to argue with you.”

He studies your expression for a moment. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Riddle assumed it would give you the means to free yourself.”

“Well, he’s partially correct. If I’m to truly free myself, there must be part of me in your world, much like the hair in that locket. So that, even when the mirror shatters, I can slip out from the remaining shards and cling to that part of my existence.” His red eyes flick to your stomach. “It is a shame you cannot conceive. Even if you escaped my grasp, I could simply follow you if you were—”

“Even if I could, I would never,” you interrupt, tone clipped. “Never. Not with you.”

“Then it is very clear where we shall live from now on. You must forgive the state of our home. I’ll be sure to tidy it soon enough. If we’re to live in perfect harmony, our home must reflect that, yes? You will learn to keep house so that it never falls into ruin.”

“Yes… Yes, I understand. So… So may I—the locket?”

The vines holding you hostage slither away to the shadows, and your locket drops into your outstretched hands. You breathe a relieved sigh and pry it open to check its contents. Both are still intact.

Oh, thank you. He’s okay. He’s safe!

“Now then…” Moros offers an inky hand. “Shall we?”

Tying the broken chain around your neck, you hesitate. Eventually, you place your hand in his. “We shall.”

He sweeps you into an elegant waltz. Thick, gnarled roots shift to allow the two of you passage. He lifts you into the air just before you nearly trip over one of them. If you allowed starry adoration to shroud your sight, perhaps you would have been content remaining in this world. But this wicked place is far from a comfort. Even if your world is devoid of Riddle, it is still infinitely better than this one.

Moros twirls you effortlessly, a smile widening on his lips. “You’ve made me the happiest man, my rose. I am forever honored to have you here with me. You’ll never know just how long I’ve waited, day after day, night after night… Now we can be together forever.”

You cradle his pale face, swiping the murky ink that leaks from his eyes like tears. “Forever and always.”

The musicless dance comes to an end. His hands rest at your waist, unwilling to truly part.

“Wasn’t that just grand?”

You nod along. “I apologize for my previous behavior. It was most unbecoming. Perhaps we might begin anew? Put this mess behind us, yes?”

“My rose…” Vines slither through the shadowy brush, coiling up your legs to root you in place. His grip tightens, and a manic glint darkens his gaze. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“You are no fool, Moros.” Your hand creeps into your satchel, fingers fishing for the handle of your knife. “But you were foolish to take the face of my Riddle, and for that you have brought misfortune upon yourself. It’s unforgivable!”

You yank him towards you via the belts laced around his torso. He’s caught by surprise when you crash your lips against his, whisked away in a rush of ardor. The vines slacken just so as he melts against you, pinned in place by the blade you thrust into his stomach.

And then you’re stumbling away, pitch-black blood stringing between your lips. You wipe the filth away with the back of your hand and turn from the dining room. With trembling hands, Riddle touches the handle wedged deep in his gut. There’s a flash of innocence on his face, a betrayal that carries a somber sort of pain. He looks pitiful for a second before that fearsome temper contorts his expression into something frightfully abominable. Weeds and roots thicken in retaliation, diving right for you.

“You deceitful, ill-mannered cheat!” he fumes, tearing the knife from his abdomen. Blot spatters the ground in a grisly splat. When he flings the knife across the room, blot-blood follows in an arc. “Do you not understand that this is where you belong? This is your home. I’m your husband and you’re my wife—mine! All mine!”

“I’ll never be yours!”

He grits his teeth. “You’ve scorned me for the last time! Get back here or I shall drag you through these halls—dead or alive, with or without your head attached to your shoulders!”

You shriek when he, accompanied by a following of frightful flora, lunges after you. His claws drag against your arm, almost breaking skin, but you manage to shake yourself free, just barely avoiding the vines that reach for you with thorny fingers. He slams into the wall and the whole house seems to shake from the force of it. You catch him clutching his stomach just as you jump over a rose bush sprouting from the cracked tiles.

“Stop! I implore you!” He reaches desperately, eyes wide and terrified. You almost hesitate, but then you remember this is the monster who killed your Riddle—who is trying to imprison you in this corrupt cage. “You can’t leave! I forbid it!”

Shunning him, you bound up the stairs. A stem curls around the bannister and shoots out to seize your ankle, tripping you. Your chin smacks against the steps. Blood fills your mouth shortly after, and you realize you’ve bitten your tongue. It hurts, but you must push through.

“You’re stark raving mad!” You shake your leg free of the vine, but another captures your wrist. “No! Release me!”

“Once you’re in my arms—where you rightfully belong—you shall learn proper discipline so that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station!”

Your eyes dart around the hall, searching for a means to escape. There must be something—anything! You can’t let him drag you down these stairs. The moment your foot touches the floor, you’ll never make it back up.

“You’ve yet to see how perfect we’ll be, but in time it will become clear,” he’s saying, watching you from the bottom of the stairs. “Soon… Soon, you’ll understand. Then we shall be wed and you will be mine for all of eternity. I shall employ any means necessary to ensure you remain here at my side, even if it means I must terrorize you only slightly.”

Scrambling with your free hand, you rifle through your satchel for anything useful. Your fingers brush the edge of a little box and the beginning of an idea sparks in your brain.

“I may not have done everything perfectly. I’ve made countless errors in my life and I will make countless more. I’ll never be what you want me to be—what his mother expected from me. But, if nothing else, I will right this wrong.”

You manage to loosen your other arm just enough to pull the matchbox free. In a wild frenzy, you grab hold of one and strike it against the surface of the box.

Moros lurches up the stairs, but you’re prepared. You kick him back down, your sole colliding with his face, and it brings you overwhelming delight to hear him groan in pain. Quite satisfied with yourself, you watch him tumble down the stairs, caught only by his weeds at the very bottom. 

The flowers, vines, and roots retreat, shying away from the flickering flame in your hand. You shimmy out of the last one wrapped around your waist. Shrugging the satchel off, you offer the letters stuffed within an apologetic frown before dropping the match inside. The satchel and the now smoldering envelopes land right before Moros’s feet, smoke curling out from the flaps.

You hurry to procure another match and, just as he scrambles to put the first one out, flick it down the steps. The leaves and petals shudder in the heat. Soon enough, they’ll all be caught in a fierce blaze.

“No…” he laments, looking between you and the withering plants. “No! No! No!” His gaze hardens, odium burning behind those malicious red eyes. “Not another step! Do you hear me?!” 

You do. You just choose not to listen.

You scurry the rest of the way, stumbling over your clumsy feet, and burst into the bedroom. Your sopping reflection is beckoning you forward with silent urgency. Seaweed hangs from her arms like a cloak. Her skin is bloated. In spite of everything, you trust her wholeheartedly.

A most haunting cry resounds from the hall. It’s filled with indescribable agony, tinged with rage and…fear.

“Don’t leave me! The world out there offers you nothing but misfortune and melancholy. You’ll never survive! You need me!” His shadow is stark against the wallpaper, illuminated by a gradually growing fire. “I can’t—won’t do it again! I refuse to be alone! I refuse! I’m right… Always right… And yet…”

Clutching the locket secured around your throat, you take hold of the hand offered in the mirror. She pulls you through for a final time just as another anguished scream pierces the air.

You fall out of the mirror on your hands and knees, chest heaving with exhilaration.

“I… I’m free. Free from that monster’s grasp!” You check yourself over just in case and, finding all to be well, breathe a relieved sigh. “It’s over…”

A thump against the mirror startles you. You turn back to see a thin, spidery arm reaching for the glass. His clawed fingertips touch the surface, but they don’t pass through. Instead, they tap a steady rhythm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Within minutes, he’s pounding a fist against the glass. You jerk away and hold tightly to the locket pin. It occurs to you that you’ll never truly be rid of Moros unless you destroy him. He can still slip out of the mirror when you’re slumbering, even if only for a few hours.

You dread to imagine what wretched feats he may be capable of when you submit to the land of dreams every night.

So you lift the heaviest candlestick you can find and, just as the tolling of three o’clock calls up from below, smash the mirror to pieces. The last you see of Moros is his frightful countenance awash in firelight. He looks more like a demon than a replica of your husband, inhuman features elongated like taffy stretched too far.

You’re not sure how long you spend destroying the mirror frame, but in the aftermath you allow the candlestick to fall from your hand. You deflate against the floor, gazing at the ceiling.

“It’s finally over. No longer shall we be tormented by that fiend…”

You gather the shards and stow them in a box. Come tomorrow, it will be filled with rocks, locked and bound in chains, and tossed into the river.

For now, you climb into Riddle’s bed and, soothing yourself with the warm memories you have of him, slowly succumb to sleep.

Moros’s Looking Glass is no more.

“Oh, if you could only hear his death wail!” you recount to Riddle’s grave over tea and biscuits. There’s a cup and plate set for him, placed just near his headstone. “Shrill as a squall. I was so certain it might fill my ears with blood if it went on any longer. I should hope to never encounter another sound more thunderous.”

You hum around the porcelain rim. “If you were with me today, I suspect we’d have a grand celebration. Only the victors delight in the secret spoils of a battle hard-fought.”

The sun is peeking out through feathery cumulus today. Warmed beneath the rays, boasting the locket pin on your breast, you don’t seem so gloomy in your mourning wear. Rather, you’re hopeful. Riddle can finally rest.

“Oh! I never did have the opportunity to recount my travels. The seaside is marvelous. Simply exquisite, my dear. Full of enchanting mystery. The sailors at port spin all manner of tales! I fear it may have haunted my head for the rest of my stay, for I was certain I saw shimmering tails out by the rocks. Ah, but these grotesque sirens could never hope to impress a jot of fear in me.”

I’ve endured far worse.

“Riddle…” You rest your hand upon the grass, smoothing out verdant blades beneath your palm. “I adore you.”

A gentle breeze whistles through the churchyard. You smile.

If you strain your ears, you can almost hear his voice on the wind, reciprocating the sentiment.

Five Years Later.

At the bottom of the river, stowed away in a box with rocks, shards of glass have been laid to rest.

A single red eye blinks open in the dark, trapped within the reflective surface.

Hands bring the box up onto shore, where three children crowd around it.

“What you’ve dug up this time?” the little girl asks, kneeling on the shore.

“It’s a treasure chest!” one of the boys exclaims.

“Is it truly?”

“Look, see!” The other points.

Together, they drop a particularly heavy stone onto the rusted, water-worn chains. They break apart seamlessly.

“Blast. No key.”

“Surely we can break it in?”

“Let’s give it a go.”

It takes some effort, but soon enough they’ve dented the mechanism. The box pops open, revealing shards of glittering glass. With a disappointed grumble, one of the boys lifts a chunk towards the sky. The sun catches it, reflecting its rays beautifully.

“Nothin’ but mess. Worthless.”

“Ya think? If we patch it up, it’ll sell for a few shillings. I declare thee: Magic Mirror of Mystery.” He turns towards his friends and grins. “What do ya reckon?”

“This isn’t even worth a week’s bread. Throw it back.”

“It could be worth something small.”

“Hmm. No. I reckon I’ll keep it. Let’s make it a gift.”

“Who for?”

“Lady Rosehearts! She’s always givin’ us our share for survival. We gotta pay it back. Mummy always said you pay kindliness with more kindliness and you’ll never go hungerin’.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous! I shall make a necklace out of the smaller pieces! It’ll be so pleasing.” The little girl giggles in delight, admiring the shards sparkling in the box.

“And I’ll put the pieces together into somethin’ sturdy.” 

They exchange eager glances and then gather the shards, leaving an empty box in their wake.

[muzansfangs]

MARGARITA + Grimmjow 🩵

The royal pet.

Starring: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x f!reader; mention to Aizen Sosuke;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, language, slight degradation kink, oral sex (Grimmjow!receiving), vaginal fingering, lingerie kink, playful face-slapping, cum swallowing, hair pulling, the reader is Aizen’s daughter, secret affair, dirty talk;

Plot: The thrill of going behind your father’s back and letting loose had always been enticing to you. Spitting on Aizen Sosuke’s rules by letting the Sexta Espada turn you into his personal plaything was absolutely enthralling. At the end of a particularly intense meeting, you found your way to Grimmjow’s quarters and helped him take his frustration out on you: the very person who resembled Lord Aizen.

Drink chosen: MARGARITA (blow job, cum swallowing, lingerie kink, vaginal fingering, playful face-slapping);

MASTERLIST FOR THE EVENT | RULES FOR THE EVENT

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

"On your fucking knees" Grimmjow growled, slamming the door of his quarters close behind him. The playful smirk gracing your glossy lips only widened, when you noticed the way his jaw clenched in annoyance, hands already working on the sash of his hakama to get rid of his pants.

He was beyond furious.

You knew the reason why wrath flashed in his gorgeous, piercing blue eyes. Earlier, when your father had publicly humbled him, flexing his immense reiatsu at the presence of the whole team of the Espada working for him, you were there too. Actually, you were standing right at your father's side, witnessing to the scene impassibly, albeit you were squeezing your thighs together underneath the white gown of your pristine uniform. You already knew what was going to happen once that farce ended. You could see the thirst for revenge in Grimmjow’s feral gaze, when your eyes had met for a split second. It was clear to see: Grimmjow knew he could do nothing against your father, therefore he had opted for playing with his precious daughter to get back at him.

He vividly remembered the day his Lord had introduced you to his flunkies. Grimmjow had never been the type to pay attention during meetings, sitting comfortably on the chair and staring at the void sounded better than listening to Aizen’s rambling speeches, most of the times. The formality that shinigami had always attempted to make the Arrancars accostumed to had nauseated Grimmjow to no end for months. Not easy to tame, he minded his own business, simply going straight for the kill when he heard Aizen needed someone to be eradicated from the world.

Still, hearing Aizen calling that pretty girl standing next to him ‘my daughter, your princess’, had made the tables turn pretty fast. Looking at your face, he could see some of your father’s traits, unequivocally confirming you shared his blood. Having you would have granted him a chance to get even with that bastard. Not even a week later, he was rutting into you in his bedroom.

Lord Aizen did not know about your affair and he was far from imagining what you were doing now, climbing off of the bed in that lacy blue lingerie that Grimmjow loved to tear off of your body. After all, you had mastered your ability to hide your reiatsu and, just like your father, you displayed lofty disdain in public appearence. No one would have ever believed you let the Sexta Espada ravage you every night.

“Someone is upset, I see” you said, stopping right in front of Grimmjow with a smug grin plastered on your face.

He clenched his jaw, blue eyes sizing you up hungrily “Cut the crap and open that stupid mouth of yours” he hissed through gritted teeth, before slapping you playfully across your cheek.

You huffed, rolling your eyes, tongue darting out of your mouth to moisten your lips. Apparently, he was in no mood to waste precious time. You got the hint of it, when moments after kneeling in front of him, his hand unceremoniously grasped a fistful of your hair and tugged at it. You shot him an annoyed glare, lips parting as he slapped the riddiah tip of his cock over your tongue. Warmth, that warmth he had been yearning for was finally tickling the sensitive skin of his cock. The sensation obnubilated his senses, a guttural groan of satisfaction reverberating through the walls of his bedroom.

Your tsked, sloppily kissing the mushroom head to lubricate it, before finally dipping your head forwards to envelop almost halfway through. Grimmjow wanted more. He demanded more from you; a princess had to skilled, right?

“Fuck— Go at it, come on. At least, you stopped yapping. You are just like that son of a bitch, y’know? So lucky, you’re so lucky you are prettier” Grimmjow ranted, lolling his head back as you began to suck him off diligently, tongue teasingly running on the prominent vein on the underside of his cock.

He grunted, screwing his eyes shut at this. Your vision was partially blurry, tears threatening to spill down from the angles of your eyes for the efforts. No matter how many times you had given him oral, you would have never grown accostumed to his rough pace and size. He perfectly knew you struggled, the gagging sounds you emitted had clearly never gone unnoticed by the cocky man currently face-fucking you.

However, you deep down knew why he never showed mercy towards you. It was all thanks to the blood in your veins, naturally. No one who shared Sosuke’s last name should have ever being showed empathy to.

The moment he twitched into your mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, you were granted the chance to breathe for he finally pulled out of your mouth. Saliva dribbled down your chin, a string connecting your lips to his cock, bumping onto your nose to still remind you that it could invade your throat at any minute. Classic Grimmjow with his devious ideas.

His fingers still tangled through your head yanked you up, tossing onto his bed. Falling face first onto the mattress, you attempted to roll onto your back to lock eyes with him. Grimmjow, on the other hand, pinned you back down. His fingers skimmed down your body, tugging at the fabric of your panties to push them to the side. Puffy labia glistening in arousal, he chuckled darkly at the sight of your heat.

“Fucking Hell, that’s so gross, princess. Getting turned on by being manhandled… That’s sick. — he gruffly said, before he slided his forefinger into you, the squelching noise music to his ears — Slut, you like it, hm? Degraded by your father’s underling, as if you were a cheap whore” he mocked you and the way you shrieked onto the bed, strained moans leaving your lips like a mantra.

“Shut up already!” you protested, brows furrowing, when he added another fingers and deftly curled them into you.

Blinded by lust and pleasure, you gasped and gripped the sheets at your sides to brace yourself. No, you were not going to last long if he perseverated in ferociously stimulating that spongy spot into you. The blissful torture did not last long. No, it did not, because Grimmjow did not believe you derseved to be properly pampered for your hard work, or for risking your own neck to let him ravage you in your father’s castle.

Pulling his fingers out of your welcoming hole, the Espada rolled you over your back. Panting, you shot him a questining look, only for him to grin from ear to ear and climb onto the bed. Hand wrapped around his cock, he began to jerk off with his knees at the sides of your head.

“Sorry, babe, but I ain’t got time for fucking you. You’ll have to drink up… Yeah, open wide Aizen Y/N” he rasped out, your nails digging onto his thighs as you closed your eyes and awaited.

Loyal, royal pet, you swallowed down the hot semen spurting directly from the Espada’s cock, tasting the sour liquid as if it was an act of service. Learning to love Grimmjow had come along with disobeying your father’s rules and pretending nothing went on between the walls of Las Noches.

Dressing back up, you made sure to join your father for dinner, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek and a benevolent smile crossing your sinful lips all the times. Those lips, you had kissed your father’s cheeck with the same impure lips that had been stained by his stupid Espada’s cum. How disrespectful you were

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! Another one-shot for the event has been completed! The Nanami one is going to follow suit in the next few days. Thank you so much for your support!

Until next,

x o x o

TAGS: @beautifulblackbutterflies because you love Grimmjow!

[simplyafountainpen]

Dancing With Death

{𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼}: Doll!M!Reader x The Undertaker

{𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓹𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷}: It was a slow day in the shop, and the Undertaker was growing bored. Now, what better way to cheer up then playing with his favorite doll?~

{𝓣𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓼}: Switch!Mainly Bottom!Reader, Switch!Mainly Top!Undertaker, size queen, medical play (needles), spit used as lube, unhealthy power dynamics, pain play (by technicality), casket fucking, goofy sex, Reader gets a new penis;then gets fucked with the old one, Mute!Reader

The Undertaker glided through the halls of the funeral home. His hair flowed even more freely with the removal of his hat, which sat on your head.

He tidied up - in his own special way anyway - and moved coffins around as you sat wordlessly on an old, rickety gurney. Small dust clouds were swept up as he danced through the halls, you watching in what little curiosity you could muster up. He had been proud, you remembered, when you smiled for the first time, no matter how small it may have been. You've been slowly gaining emotions back as the years passed by Adrian's side. He hummed as he swept, though he was really just pushing dust into other corners.

Your hand snaked up to the stiches that lined both side of your jaw, sewed to a point that it only left the middle of your mouth able to open. Apparently, when you were brought back - your memory was always so hazy - your jaw just refused to stay attached to your head, so stitching the two was Adrian's next best option. Your feeling in that area was naturally lacking, but you made due, if just to see that delighted grin the white-haired reaper would gain. You were ripped from your thoughts when hands wrapped around your waist and ticked the various other stiches on your body, a head resting on your shoulder.

"What has you so lost in thought, love?" He giggled, and you laid your head atop his. You booped his nose and he gasped dramatically, draping himself over you even more than he was. "You were thinking of me?! Oh you lovely you!!" He started peppering your face in kisses, kissing your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, and finally your lips. You turned, your waist and pelvic bones groaning at the movement.

Your body turned a full one-hundred and eighty degrees to meet him, legs still facing forward. Hands and arms encircled his shoulders, your head leaning into his chest. Your skin screamed in protest of the awkward position, but the pain was so dull with your dead nerves you barely cared to recognize it. Cleaning had been completely forgotten in Adrian's mind by now, instead he clambered up onto the gurney with you, lifting you - and allowing your body to flex back into a regular position - and placing you in his lap. Reaching over he grabbed a broom he had been using earlier in the day and used it as a makeshift oar to move the wheeled bed across the floor. The two of you flew across the Funeral Parlor until you crashed against a wall, Adrian laughing gleefully all the while whist you clung to him.

He recovered quite quickly, and pushed a shelf to the side, revealing a small staircase upwards. You had just barely began to dust yourself off when he picked you up and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As soon as he entered the small staired corridor he gripped a small handle with his free hand, pulling the shelf back in it's place and allowing you both upstairs - the living quarters - with nothing to be bothered about as far as you cared.

Soon you were both in the lofty space above all the body filled coffins, now surrounded by half-finished, empty ones. You barely breathed as Adrian took you to your shared bedroom and laid you gently on the black sheets of a two-person casket, your body going boneless as soon as you felt the comforting coolness touch your equally cold body.

"Hehe, now now my love, I did still have a couple things I had to do today buuuuttttt, I figure I can do them tomorrow. I mean, with you sitting there so cute how could anyone get anything done??" Adrian asked with a smile, taking the hat of his that you still wore and placing it on a nightstand.

"In fact, you're so cute I might just-" "UNDERTAKER?!" Adrian paused, smile still on his lips but strained. You recognized that scream. It was the blue boy's scream, though you couldn't quite recall his name at the moment. You had heard your fair share of conversations between him and Adrian as you pretended to be a corpse in one of the many coffins downstairs.

"I forgot to close the shop and blow out the candles... ah well. At the very least this should be entertaining. Sorry love, I've actually got pressing business to attend to it seems, most likely about that young lad who came in a couple days ago." Ah yes, the little boy. He looked like he was strait from a portrait with how sickly and pale he was, how thin and skinny he was, and how thick those bags under his eyes were. It shocked you a little when you lifted up the hat Adrian had put onto his head to find the top of his head and skull missing, what little was left of the brain nothing more then a sickly red and grey soup. The hat was quickly placed back on what was left of his head.

You shook the image from your head, the picture fading into black in your mind, you had seen much worse while with Adrian anyway. You looked at him and nodded in understanding, leaning up and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. He blushed, giggling even more, before skipping off with a wave, opening a small hatch that would allow him to "appear" in a coffin downstairs.

Though, before he went down the shoot, he turned and blew you a kiss, mouthing something to you before flying down into the darkness below, door snapping back into the wall after him. It took a few moments to decipher what he had mouthed but when you did, you grabbed a pillow and shoved your face into it, feet kicking into the air.

'I'll make it up later, my Lily.’

·:¨༺ ♱✮¨:·ᨐฅ ᨐᵐᵉᵒʷ·:¨✮♱ ༻¨:·˚─── ⋆⋅⛥⋅⋆ ──

Adrian crept into the large bedroom, the sun long gone from the sky and the moon hanging lazily behind clouds. Your paled skin almost glowed in the light, chest unmoving, a sign of rest. He chuckled, thinking of all the ways he could wake you and make good on his promise from earlier. He waltzed over to a dresser, pulling out the bottom drawer, and began to make selections for the night. His eyes practically lit up the room when he pulled his hair back as he began to disrobe.

Satin wrap and mourning lockets resided on a table, and clothes - minus his undergarments - rested folded on a desk chair. As he stood stagnate for a moment, you shifted, upper body lifting with no help from your arms. When fully sat you, your head flopped forward. After a minute, you seemingly jolted awake, eyes flying wide and meeting his which watched with intrest.

"Rigor mortis again, my love?" he questioned, leaving some things on the desk while holding his hands behind his back. You nodded stiffly, twisting and turning to loosen your stiffened joints. Once something loudly popped in your spine, you sighed in relief. Adrian began walking over, still holding his hands behind his back. You raised your eyes in question, and Adrian chuckled.

"Are you wondering what's back here, love?~" He was teasing you, so you chuffed, raising your arms and grabbing at him. He laughed out loud that time, clambering into the casket and resting in your lap. Your arms quickly found purchase around his waist, hands groping at the feeling of his pelvic bone. The feeling was obviously tickling the pale, scarred man above you, because the laughter quickly turned into him belting out in joy, his hands slapping at the coffin floor. He snickered, snorting into your hair as he leaned down, one hand coming from his back and rubbing your scalp, and you leaned into the touch.

His hand trailed down to the small of your back, feeling the mourning clothes your family had gave him to bury you in, the smooth cotton under his fingers of the long dress coat you wore. You pressed your face into his jugular, inhaling and sighing. His hand came up and traced your collarbone. He dropped whatever he was holding to bring both hands to your coat in order to begin undressing you. Whatever it was, it was cold against the frozen skin of your legs. It felt textured, long in shape and bulbous at the head.

Whatever it was, you were more than ready to see it.

Adrian took all your upper layers off as you stared off into the distance, lost in your thoughts. You were limp as he raised your arms to remove you coat, vest and shirt, forehead rested on his shoulder as you slowly blinked. His hands glided across your paled skin, tracing stiches.

His hands trailed downward from your chest and to your stomach, rubbing the skin for a moment, humming, then dragging his hands down to your waist, resting his palms on the rim of your pants, digging his thumbs between the pants and your skin. You hummed, shimming your hips to make it easier for the man to remove your pants and underwear. He inched back till he was at your ankles, yanking both slacks and underwear off, then gently pulling your socks off.

You sighed, Adrian giggled, and he scooted right up back onto your lap, limp dick resting on one of his thighs. One hand came to touch your face, thumbing your cheek as you leaned in like a cat, almost purring like one too. His other hand went behind him, grabbing whatever it was he wanted to show you.

“My love, do you remember a certain conversation we had?” Your eyes met his, shocked a little at being able to see the glowing green light they emitted. After a instant though, you shook your head.

“Figured as much. For such a pretty face nothing much goes on up here.~” He jokingly lamented, knocking on your head rather harshly, making you grunt at the dull, non-existent pain. “Well, dear, it was about your… well how should I put this… your anatomy?” He questioned, though that was more to himself than anything. You tilted your head.

“As I’m sure you’re more than aware of, you are stitched together at the limbs. You have noticed, yes?” You nodded, hand subconsciously coming to feel the stitches on your face. “Then on that subject, I’m sure you’re aware that I had to take some… artistic liberties when recreating your penis?” You nodded again, hand on your face running down to your cock, which had more stitches than the Frankenstein, really.

“And as much as I do love the texture those 'artistic liberties' give me in bed, I’ve grown a bit bored, and we can’t be having that now can we, dear?” You rapidly shook your head no, muscles and bones creaking and groaning at the rate you shook your head.

“Glad we’re on the same page. Then, I hope you won’t hate this gift I have for you?~” You stared at him, eyes flitting down to the hand behind his back, still nuzzling - to the best of your ability - the hand on your cheek. Adrian smiled one of the widest grins you’d ever seen on him, and whipped his hand around to the front.

What met your eyes was one of the longest, girthiest and heftiest cock you’d ever seen in your life- or well… rebirth anyway. If the blood that was in your veins still pumped through your body, it would've run cold at the sight of the damned thing. One of your hands reached out to run a finger against it, the feeling of the thing being so life-like that you would mistake it for real cock. Knowing Adrian... it probably was. It, at bare minimum, was seven inches in length and five inches in girth. You licked what little skin of your lips your tongue could reach, eyes looking into Adrian's as his smile widened even more. He began to laugh at what you assumed was you expression, probably being the closest to shock your face could morph it into.

"Huge, isn't it?" He joked, tossing it from one hand to another, the weight the thing making loud slapping noises as he 'played' with it. You eyes followed it, almost hypnotized, but you shook your head and looked up to meet his eyes blinking in confusion. He still stared, his tongue now peaking from between his lips, and gazed into your eyes.

"Ah yes, I'm sure you're wondering: "How will we switch them out Adrian??", well my dear, I anticipated this would happen at some point and soooo-" He dropped the monster of a cock from his hand, standing and jumping out from the casket, rushing back over to the desk and picked up what looked to be a small medical bag. Within seconds he was back in the casket, taking out a small pair of suture scissors and a small scalpel. He placed the scissors down on a small tray he also removed from the bag before he began teasing the blade down your body, starting from infraumbilical and trailing down to your pelvis, teasing the sharp blade around the base of your dick, pressing on the suture's keeping your sex attached to your body. For a moment you felt a pinch, and finally some of the stiches broke, minimal amounts of blood pearling from the points where Adrian purposefully pressed a bit harder, the view causing you to chub.

Adrian tutted, grabbing what was still attached and squeezing, your breath hitching. He took the scissors from their resting place, replacing them with the scalpel, and snipped away at what little was left, an odd feeling clinging to your body as the flaps of skin at the base of your dick rested on your body, no longer attached. Adrian looked up, one hand still on your cock, and began chuckling again.

"... I made you like a little mix-and-match doll!" Without warning he tugged, and immediately you noted that a little more then just the just the skin would've had to have been sewn together in order for the dick to work. You groaned, feeling your urethral tube be split at your base. Your erectile tissue evidently was giving issue as Adrian grunted, picking the scalpel back up and make quick but precise cuts to the structure, making fast work of it.

And finally, you were free. You stared as open mouthed as you could be at the sight of your bare pelvis, making quick glances at the penis Adrian held in his hands smirking. Barely any blood pooled from the wound, what was left was drooping from your body. You kept your eyes on the stump, running a gentle hand over it, shivering at the extreme jolt of pleasure that ran though your, stronger than anything you had felt as of late. Adrian gripped your wrist before you could touch the pieces again.

"Now now my love, give me a moment and this will become much, much more pleasurable." You nodded, what little breathing you were preforming slowing when you thought of the new weight you'd be carrying around. Perhaps you may need a new pair of pants...

You snapped out of your thoughts, eyes focusing back on Adrian as he leaned close to your pelvis, old penis long discarded... somewhere you couldn't see. He was hard at work, lining up nerves and the new urethral tube to your own, erectile tissues already dealt with. All you could think about was how nimble Adrian's hands were, making quick work of all access skin and pulling out a medical grade needle and thread, the scissors making a reappearance as he tied knots. Whatever the hell he made the beast out of must have been fresh, because soon enough you were feeling each press of the needle into you skin. You couldn't help but pant, drool slipping from your sewed lips, whines rolling from the back of your throat.

Adrian laughed as he watched you eyes roll to the back of your head, an arm quickly wrapping around your midsection when you fell back onto your elbows. He made sure you hips would stay propped up as he continued to work, fingers ghosting now sensitive flesh. Your chest rose and fell harshly as he continued to work, a sudden weight pulling your hips down. It was silent for a moment, Adrien not laughing or speaking, only shallow breathing.

Everything was still, nothing but the crickets outside singing. Adrien sat up, his grin wide and full of glee. The reaper leaned close, pulling you back up by the shoulder. He leveled himself with your ear, hot breath puffing making it twitch.

"All done.~" He whispered, and abruptly his hand found it's way to the base, squeezing again. You whined, head falling even further back as Adrian made his way onto your lap, one hand now moving to your hair while the other stayed on your new dick. He licked his lips, bringing up his hand and spitting on it, wrapping it back around your cock and slowly stroking it, gently caressing the tip with his thumb, then he stuck his tongue out and giggled at you. You huffed like a dog, groaning and humming as he languidly stroked up and down. He began to palm your dick, pressing it between his hand and your stomach, stopping to pinch at the skin lightly. He yanked you by your hair to face him, eye to eye. Finally he smashed his lips on yours, cold lips meeting his wet lips in a harsh embrace. His teeth grinded on your lips, then forcing them as far as they could go and shoving his tongue in. Though only the tip of his tongue could fit, he groaned loudly, speeding up his palming and adding pressure. Your arms gripped Adrien's shoulders, nails digging into his shoulder blades.

He readjusted his grip, holding you dick again and rapidly stroking, precum running like faucet out your tip. Finally your 'kiss' broke, a long line of drool keeping you both connected. He smirked, laughing as he licked the line up, trailing up your cheek leaving a wet trail. Your eyes focused on his hand on your dick, watching it like it called you, breath short. You felt a knot in your belly begin to tighten, cock twitching and balls tightening. Adrien seemed to take notice and brought you closer and closer, before pulling away at literally the last second, leaving you a whining, whimpering mess. You let go of him and fall back onto a pillow, arms crossing above your head. Your now teary eyes stared into his as he cackled, slapping a hand to his forehead and and throwing his head back, kicking his legs into the air.

You picked yourself up, pouting and crossed your legs, turning away from him. His laughter died down into snickers when he saw you. He crawled forward and pressed his head into your chest, pressing himself into you and wrapping arms around your waist. You crossed your arms and looked away, shaking your head as he prodded his face into one of you pecks.

"Oh come ooonnn love, it was just a bit of fuuuunnn!" He dramatically sighed. You still looked away, not bothering to give him any kind of attention. He shifted himself onto your lap, your cock now between his ass cheeks. He began to grind down, what spit he globbed onto it earlier working as lube. You bit the inside of your cheek as his hands made their way around your neck.

"Lovely pllleeaassee look at mmee!" He was whining now, humping at your dick and rubbing his face up and down your chest. Your resolve was cracking but you sucked it up and continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. It seemed Adrian had enough because one of his hands gripped your chin and forced you to face him.

"Now now my lily," you shivered, "Is this anyway to act towards the man who blessed you with such a beast like this?~" He clenched ass around your girth, bouncing faster to emphasize his point. You groaned, uncrossing your arms and gripping his waist. He laughed as you gave in, pressing your face into his hair.

"Good boy good boy! Such a good lovely you are!~ Now for your reward!" He suddenly gripped at your shoulders again, raising himself off your dick. Before you could whine in any way, he shushed you. He reached back with one hand and spread his cheeks, revealing his winking hole to the cold air of the room. You watched him shiver and then smile widely, then slam himself down onto your cock, not even taking the time to prep himself.

You immediately grabbed his hips to try and lift him back up to assess damage and scold him, but he tightened around you, sucking the monster dick all the way in one move. You froze, mind going fully blank at the feel of his hot insides fully encompassing your newfound girth. After a moment of recollecting yourself, you looked at him, both with lust and worry, and all he did was coo at you.

"Aw, is my darling worried for me?" You sniffed, nodding, and he only cooed louder, squeezing your cock and petting your head. You shivered and leaned into his touch. Tears fell and Adrian stopped his cooing and coddling to truly took at you.

"Are you... genuinely worried love?" You nodded, sniffling to the best of your current capabilities. Adrian's grin uncharacteristically dropped. For once he wasn't giggling or snickering or laughing. You gripped his hips a bit tighter. "Dear, look at me."

Your teary gaze met his concerned eyes and he did something you never thought you'd see him do: frown.

"I've been through much, much worse love." He murmured, and you nodded. "This is nothing to me, Love." You nodded again. "I want you to understand that I am perfectly fine with a bit of pain, alright?" You nodded again, rubbing his hips and pressing your face into his neck. You both sat there in silence, just breathing and existing in each others holds, your hands on his hips and around your neck.

You heard Adrian sigh, and felt his lips on your neck, gently suckling on the stitched up skin, paying close attention to make sure no stiches got caught in his teeth. You in turn hummed, continuing to rub circles into his waist.

He started to grind your cock deeper into his depths, your breathing shuttering at his movements, the circles you were drawing becoming shaky. Adrian smiled into your skin, gently rubbing your upper back while still laying soft kisses to your neck. You finally gripped his waist, grinding your cock into him, making him let out a loud moan that would turn into a laugh. He finally picked himself up and slammed himself back onto your cock, both of you groaning in pleasure. He moved up and down as he continued to press kisses, moving up your neck, to your chin, then your cheeks and then your lips.

He would bounce a couple times, then grind down and squeeze his walls around you. He did this over and over again, enjoying every time you’d whine when he’d stop for a moment. You gripped his waist, nails nearly piercing his skin, and raised him till only your tip was in his ass, then slammed him down, Adrien’s nails instead piercing your skin and drawing red lines on your back. You continued to bounce him, grunting as you used him like a toy. Adrian’s voice had became high pitched, almost girlish moans leaving his lips.

You held him down for a moment, slamming him into the back of the coffin. He grunted, and you quickly resumed pounding into his wet heat. Your hands left his hips and grabbed his thighs, pulling one onto your shoulder for more leverage as you kept pushing into him. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the room with Adrian’s moans right behind, the sent of sex filling your nose. Your hips met his with force, shifting him on his back, his hands falling and landing beside his head. You folded yourself forward, pushing your face into his chest as you continued to thrust. Adrian was screaming at this point, hair a wild mess beneath him and eyes crossed to the back of his head.

You harshly sucked in a breath when Adrian suddenly thrusted up to meet you halfway. You looked up at him too see him completely flushed and panting. You slowed down, watching as one of his arms picked up and trailed down your spine, and eventually rested on your ass. You raised an eyebrow at his action, then fell forward into his chest when a finger entered your ass. Immediately you jerked into him, which in turn made him push the finger deeper inside you.

You dropped his legs, wrapping arms around his midsection and whined loudly, humping into his warmth while he added another finger, constantly switching from thrusting them and stretching them out. Your eyesight was getting bleary from the sheer amount of tears pouring down your face. Adrian was moaning and laughing at the situation, adjusting you upwards on him so you were face to face.

"S-such a cute dolllll I have huh? So c-cute and PLIant for meeee hehe!!~” His tone was the slightest bit mocking as he stretched out your hole, adding a third finger which made you whine. He quickly matched your pace with his long fingers, poking your prostate head on, his other hand coming down to slap your pert ass. He laughed wildly at your noises, now more bouncing you up and down then you had been.

He suddenly gained strength, enough to sit up at an angle and force you to stop, ripping his fingers from your hole and pushing you over to land on your back, cock still inside him all the while. Adrian reached behind him, sweating and panting as he cackled and picked himself up to slam back down on you.

The feeling of finality raced across your mind and you seized up, joints locking and hands flying to his chest, tearing down causing him to bleed. He giggled, tutted once more, reached behind him, and suddenly slammed something deep with you. You jerked up, pushing yourself fully within his ass and cried, nails digging deeper into his flesh.

Rigid and bumpy the object was, fleshy and cold to match you, it nailed your prostate head on. You looked at Adrian incredulously and all he did was smile, rear the thing back till only the tip was encased inside you, and pushed it fully back inside. Again you slammed into him, his head rearing back and hair flowing wildly. He set a quick pace, one not hard to follow, and it wasn’t long until you gave in and gave one final pump, then came inside him.

Adrian all but screamed to the heavens when you released; but, he didn’t stop his relentless attacks on your ass, still fucking you with whatever he was fucking you with. He kept bouncing even as you silently pleaded for him to stop, hands moving to his biceps to stay steady as overstimulation started to settle in your bones. A creamy white ring made its home beneath his ass as your cum was pushed out by even more release when you came again, shoving at Adrian’s chest to get him off you.

“O-OH!! Not yet m-my love I’m al-ALMOST!! ThERE!!~~” With that, Adrian slammed himself down the hardest he had all evening, pushing his new found toy to the hilt up your ass, the both of you cumming at the same time, his seed landing all across your torso and chest.

He fell forward, lying on top of you, both of you breathing harshly. Adrian giggled, licked up some of his own cum, and kissed you, tonguing it past your lips. It was salty, with just a touch of sweetness, you hummed and swallowed as he fell back onto your chest. The two of you lied there, basking in the afterglow and simply existing for a short while, before finally you realized something.

Poking Adrian on his shoulder, he glanced up and you motioned to you butt - ignoring that fact you were both still connected via your flaccid cock up his tight ass - and gestured for him to remove whatever was still inside there. Evidently this was hilarious to Adrian because he quickly slammed as hand on you chest and burst out into gut wrenching laughter, his whole body shaking, which made you groan because - again - you both were still connected by the hips.

“Oh, oh dear you are not going to like this… b-but that new ‘toy’ I added in the, ahem, passion of the moment- if I may say - was… it was - hehe… it was uhm… Well how about I just show you?~” After choking on his own laughter, the hand that still held whatever-it-was ripped it out without warning, but before you could even make any kind of sound, it was presented before you.

… Your old cock.

Adrian had fucked you… with your own, old cock.

Evidently the look on your face was amazing because Adrian burst into tears, throwing the poor thing across the room to hold himself as he laughed. You stared at him in disbelief, but quickly let it go, hugging him to your body and turning to lay on your side. He snickered into your chest as you closed your eyes, allowing the moon to shine over your sweaty bodies.

Your pressed a kiss to his head as he continued to now silently laugh in your grip. Opening one eye, you looked at him softly. Even if he was a kook, he was your kook.

… A kook that fucked you in the ass with your own cock, but your kook nevertheless. And that’s exactly how you wanted it to be.

{𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓼}: I adore the Undertaker. What I wouldn't give to be one of his Dolls...

-🖋️

All publishings on this account belong to @fountain-pen-anon. I do not authorize my fics being altered, translated, stolen or published/reposted to other sites, thank you.

© fountain-pen-anon - all rights reserved

[murdocs-sweetheart]

Get to know your mutuals

Tagged by @dastmalchiansnose !! Hii ! Tyy!! :D

———

What’s the origin of your blog title?

Well I just wanna start by giving an honorary mention to my former, longstanding url bc I had that one since this blog’s inception!

My former url, ‘selfindulgentfandomstuff’ was born of my half assed attempt at coming up with a blog name that indicated that I was a selfshipper and not just a normal fandom blog! I realize in hindsight, it probably did just the opposite haha! Still, it became kind of iconic amongst my mutuals/followers, I think, which is why I mention it haha!

My ACTUAL url as it is currently, ‘murdocs-sweetheart’, is the final nail in the metaphorical coffin that is my relationship with Murdoc (CBS MacGyver). I love that guy so so much and I wanted a url to reflect that yknow?

Favorite fandoms?

Alllll of Star Trek (but especially TNG, DS9, DISCO, LD) <- listed first bc even tho I don’t talk abt it much on this blog anymore, Star Trek is a core part of me in so many ways <3

CBS MacGyver

Villainous CN

Late Night With The Devil

Erhhmm probably more but I forgor and those are the main ones I suppose

Otp(s)/shipname?

Will I be crucified if I say my selfship with Murdoc?/hj I AM a selfship blog after all haha!!

For realsies tho, all my mutuals’ selfships and for canon x canon stuff, I gotta go with ‘Elim Garak x Julian Bashir’ aka Garashir. I drew a looooot of fanart for those two when I was younger haha!!

favorite color?

Any shade including and between blue and green. Cheating? Perhaps. Do I care? No :)

Favorite game?

The Star Trek Catan board game!! (There’s a theme here, are you noticing this?/silly)

Song stuck in your head

‘The Moral’ by Shayfer James

Weirdest habit/trait?

Oh man, I could be here all day listing stuff…autism moment. You understand/lh

I suppose the one that comes to mind has to be the way I sit when I draw. I CAN sit in other positions to draw but the way I CHOOSE to when I get to choose is … inexplicable to be quite honest 😭

hobbies?

Drawingggg (traditional and digital), jewelry crafting/beading, juijitsu (although truthfully I’m quite new at it so I’m not very good yet lol), umm I think that’s it.. I used to do archery?? I got pretty good too. Stopped bc I hit a rough patch that wouldn’t go away and took a break about it and haven’t gone back yet. :(

if you work, what’s your profession?

Unemployed babeyyyyy

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be?

Well, my goal, right now, is to work in some kind of space exploration program. Not sure where, perhaps NASA but that feels a bit too lofty even for my fantasies haha! But for the purposes of this question, yes I suppose my dream job would be working as an astrophysicist at NASA or some comparable organization. (NOT SpaceX)

And I think my alternate, that I’m still equally enthused about- so much so that I added it here- is working in research in quantum physics. Particularly stuff in quantum field theory! Cliche, I know, eeeeverybody wants to do ✨Quantum Physics✨ now but idccc I love the subject so much!!

Something you’re good at?

Umm I’ve been TOLD I’m good at drawing?? Not really compared to people I see on the internet but I guess I could say that- drawing! OH oh ooohh I’m EXCELLENT at untying knots. Like weirdly good and fast at it. Weird flex, I know 😅

Something you’re bad at?

Lots and lots of things, my friend/lh

I guess I’m pretty sucks at maintaining friendships. Decent at MAKING friends! Not so much keeping them, y’know?

Something you love?

ANIMALSSS YAYYY particularly cats, crows and elephants!!!

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff?

Literally any of the stuff I’ve listed above. My fandoms, my selfships, my interest in physics, you get the gist! I’m a yapper at heart!

Something you hate?

Whatever the hells going on inside my brain with that moralistic OCD type shit 😭😭😭

Something you collect?

ROCKS. SHELLS. PLUSHIES. BOXES/CONTAINERS. NEED I GO ON? I loooove hoarding stuff haha!!

Something you forget?

Most people don’t really give a damn if I slip up in a social interaction <- social (among other types) anxiety disorder haver

What’s your love language?

Idk I think I like when people make a point of reassuring me I’m doing Okay, in their eyes, if that makes sense?

Favorite movie/show?

Well. You already know about my fav shows lol. I’ll say my fav movies have to be a tie between ‘The Secret of NIMH’ and ‘Everything Everywhere All At Once’!!

favorite food?

My mom’s Puffed Pancakes :))

Favorite animal?

Cats, probably. Particularly African Servals!!

Are you musical?

I mean, I love listening to music? Is that anything? Idk I sang in Glee club throughout my elementary school years but idk if I was actually any good, despite being praised by all the adults in my life for it haha!! You know how people are, trying to make kids feel better.

What were you like as a child?

Annoying. Next question.

Kidding!! I was just autistic and undiagnosed! I think I was a lot like I am now? Just. Smaller. Maybe a little less anxious. Maybe a little more ambitious. Who knows.

Favorite subject at school?

Sciencessss (I took all the available science courses at my high school in either AP or honors 😎/lh/gen)

Least favorite subject?

P.E bc that shit is So Sucks. Also being a bigger girl meant that people always looked at me funny in the locker rooms. I don’t like locker rooms. :(

What’s your best character trait?

I think maybe my honesty? Like, not that I never tell white lies or anything but I think I’m pretty straightforward with most people, or so I’ve been told. That leads me to the next question tho…

What’s your worst character trait?

People REALLY do NOT like frankness sometimes 😭 so I think perhaps it’s two sides of the same coin.

In all seriousness, I think my worst character trait is whatever it is that makes me believe that I am Special. It used to be, I thought I was ‘special’ for being smarter than all my peers. Now it’s, I can’t help but think I’m ‘special’ in the way that I’m uniquely awful! 😃👍

If you could change any detail of your day right now what would it be?

I should’ve gotten up before 2 pm LMFAO

If you could travel in time would you like to meet?

Leonhard Euler. To stop him from putting the Greek alphabet into math. KIDDING. As much as I have a personal distaste for all the damn LETTERS in math now (English and Greek now), I know that it is an elegant notation and he was smart to have introduced it. No but fr I would want to meet Euler bc of the sheer amount of STUFF he contributed to and how INFLUENTIAL and AWESOME a lot of the stuff he did was!! He was a brilliant dude and I would’ve loved to meet him!

Recommend one of your favorite fanfics (spread the love):

I’ll be honest, I haven’t read any fanfic in a considerable amount of time. Chiefly bc I selfship now and honestly I just like writing my own selfship fanfic and reading that now haha!! Sorry!!

[vivalas-vega]

real friends / jake ‘hangman’ seresin x reader / part two

hiiiii -- I’m back with these two new pals. I’m really loving their dynamic :) please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist for this!

real friends / jake ‘hangman’ serein x reader / part two

read part one 

word count: 2.3k

warnings: language, jake being a shameless flirt, thats about it

taglist: @potato-girl99981 @olliepig 

“I wouldn’t go for that shot if I were you,” you taunted, sipping your beer as you watched Hangman line up his shot at the pool table. Hunched over with his arms flexed he flitted his eyes up to yours, taking the shot anyways without breaking contact. Your eyes trailed away, watching the trajectory of the ball as it slid into the pocket.

“If you want to distract me, Gopher, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.”

“Gopher?”

“You know, gopher snakes… look dangerous but are all talk no bite,” he smirked, watching as you surveyed the table, looking for your best option. You rolled your eyes and focused on the game, clearing all of your remaining shots and smirking at him as you lined yourself up. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him lean against the table, muscles tensing as he braced himself against the wood, watching you with a heavy gaze and you pretended not to notice as you sank the eight ball. 

“What a pity…” you tutted, “I’ll take a spicy margarita, thank you.” You waved him off to the bar with his tail between his legs after his second loss of the night. 

“You two seem awfully chummy tonight,” Rooster said, approaching you with an unreadable expression.

“Is that so?” you hummed.

“Expected some raised voices at some point, maybe even some peanuts thrown in his direction.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” you shrugged.

“I take it your conversation with him the other night went well?” he prodded.

“And what would you know about that, Roo?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him. You knew it was only partly Hangman’s idea to show up at your house just a few nights prior.

“Hmm? Oh nothing,” he sipped his beer.

“If you must know, yes it did go well. He was actually quite genuine, we’ve decided to try and be real friends.”

“Does this mean no more screaming matches in the hangar?”

“I can’t make such lofty promises,” you replied, taking your drink from the pilot in question with a smile.

“Had Penny make it extra spicy, just how you like it.” You took a sip and smiled again, wondering when he had picked up how you liked your drinks made.

“Wanna go again or have you had enough shame for the evening?” you asked with a slight smirk.

“You’ve tired me out, darlin’,” he slid into the booth of a nearby table and you followed, Rooster deciding to occupy himself over at the dartboard. 

“Two rounds is all you’ve got in you? No wonder I see so many angry glances thrown your way in here,” you teased and he kicked your foot underneath the table.

“Watch it, Cobra.” His tone was serious but his eyes were all mischief and you chuckled as you took another drink.

“No, that’s good to know, affirms my theory that your God complex is a mere overcompensation.” You held his eyes and smirked as they grew darker.

“It’s almost as if you’re challenging me to prove you wrong.” 

“I’d do no such thing, Bagman, it’s just so easy to rile you up.” Silence fell over you as you both wracked your brains for what to say next… neither one wanted to take the plunge into starting a real conversation, one not rooted in playful jabs or work related topics.

“So… how have you been?” he finally asked and you snorted.

“I’ve been well, Hangman, how are you?” 

“Oh, you know…” 

“I don’t.”

“I’ve also been well.” You fought back a laugh, if this was anyone else you might have felt awkward, might have gone for any excuse to scramble away but instead you just found it amusing. 

“This is delightful conversation, I feel really stimulated right now.” 

“Well, what would you like to talk about?” he shot back.

“Pick a topic,” you challenged.

“What’s your favorite color?” You let out a full laugh now, taking a large swig and finishing off your drink.

“Alright, this is painful and I need a change of scenery.” You stood, and made your way towards the door, smiling at the hurt expression on his face. “Well, are you coming?” He moved quickly, following you out the door as you began walking onto the beach and towards the water. “This is my favorite time of day out here,” you mused, taking in the way the sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, darkening by the minute.

“Mine too,” he watched as you plopped down into the sand, your eyes gazing outwards with a hint of admiration. He carefully sat beside you, trying not to position himself too close.

“I grew up in a one-horse town, sometimes it’s still so crazy to me that this is the view from my local bar now.” 

“Where at?” he asked.

“A little blip on the map about two hours from Austin.”

“You’re a Texas girl? How did I not know this about you?” He looked towards you now.

“Never had the chance,” you shrugged, “you quite enjoy dominating the conversation about our shared home state.” He looked back towards the ocean.

“Yeah, I do that, don’t I?” 

“It’s kind of nice though… when you get really into it that little accent slips back in and it reminds me of home.” 

“Did you stay home for college?”

You shook your head, “straight to the Naval Academy, I always knew I wanted to be a pilot and didn’t want to waste four years to get started. What about you, did you always know?”

“I think so, but I meandered a little bit… family business was a big deal and studied at UTD for a few years before throwing it all to the wind and joining the academy.”

“How’d your folks take it?” you asked, leaning back on your elbows.

“Disappointed at first, but in the end they weren’t surprised. They always knew it was a matter of time before I flew the coop.”

You nodded, “sometimes my mom still tries to convince me I can do literally anything else, like moving back home and settling down. I think I’ve shaved a few years off her life with how much she worries.”

“Same,” he chuckled, “before each deployment mine begs me to just come home.” 

“I’ve stopped telling mine when I deploy, she sends herself into a tizzy each time. We now communicate just as often as I would when I’m gone and my dad says it’s better for her that way.”

“Do you ever miss them?”

“Sometimes… It's rough being the outlier of the family. My sister married her high school sweetheart and is a dutiful stay-at-home mom to their three kids. My brother owns the local hardware store and has a brood of his own. The small town life works for them, makes them happy but it makes my skin crawl to think about, I love them but it’s easier being so far away. They just don’t quite get what I do or why I would ever want this life.” You’d both moved to lay down now, elbows brushing as you watched the stars begin to appear in the inky sky.

“I get it, my sisters call me crazy every time we talk. They can’t fathom why I’d ever want to risk my life to fly around in scary looking death traps every day… meanwhile I can’t fathom a life doing anything else.”

“It really does choose you, doesn’t it? The rest of the world thinks we’re insane, while we find it insane to be doing anything else. I’ll never forget my first award banquet, my mom cried for hours afterwards,” you chuckled, thinking back to the memory.

“Why is that?”

“We were standing with an admiral who’d had maybe one too many whiskeys and he let some details of the mission slip, they were meant to be high praise but it terrified her.” 

He laughed, “well, to be fair, her daughter is one of the scariest people in the Navy.”

“She doesn’t need to know that,” you hummed.

“If you weren’t a pilot, what would you be?” He asked, tilting his head slightly to look at you as your fingers absentmindedly drew patterns in the sand by your side.

“When I was in high school, just before I applied for the Navy I briefly considered enlisting in the Army and trying to be a combat medic,” you replied.

“So, something just as dangerous and stress-inducing?” he joked.

“Yeah,” you chuckled, “I guess I thrive best in high tension environments.” 

“Well, it suits you. If I had to pick someone to be in a dogfight with it’d be you, no contest.”

“Why is that?” you asked, turning to meet his gaze.

“You’re fast, faster than Maverick… not just in the way you fly but in the way you think. I know you earned your callsign based on the actual snake, but I like to believe it’s actually because you follow Cobra Kai rules in the sky.”

“I know it’s my moniker but I’m really offended you associate my name with that dojo.” 

“With your general disposition you would one hundred percent be a part of Cobra Kai.” 

“I’m only tough on people who deserve it, unlike Johnny Lawrence.”

“So I deserve your bullying?” he asked, feigning hurt. 

“You’re lucky all I do is bully you, strutting around with that ego of yours it’s like you’re just begging for me to knock you down a peg.” you teased, and he shoved your shoulder playfully.

“I could say the same about you, Cobra Kai.”

“This is my least favorite nickname for my nickname,” you sighed, but unable to fight off a smile.

“It’s better than the ones you give me,” he retorted.

“Okay, if you read into it, Ken Doll is actually a compliment.”

“Except you only use it to essentially call me an airhead,” he protested and you laughed.

“Well…” He shoved you again and you let out a loud laugh.

“Hurtful and untrue.” 

“It’s a little true,” you giggled, fighting back. “It’s not your fault the universe went a little heavy on the looks and a little light on the brains when making you.” 

“So what you’re saying right now is you think I’m attractive?”

“Instant regret. The second it left my mouth I knew it was a mistake,” you said, pulling away from him and rolling onto your back. 

“You can admit it, I see those little looks over your shades when we play dogfight football,” you looked over to see him wiggling his eyebrows at you and you rolled your eyes.

“No more than you ogle at me.”

“Difference is I have no problem admitting I find you utterly irresistible, if you can look past your generally sour mood,” his eyes trailed your form and you were suddenly acutely aware of the way your sundress was fluttering in the breeze, maybe exposing a little more of your thighs than you’d originally intended, your hand coming down to smooth over the fabric. 

“Are you flirting with me right now?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Am I flirting with you?” 

“That is what I asked, is it not?” Somewhere between the talks of your families and the playful banter you two had moved closer, your faces not as far apart as they once were and you tried to keep your breathing even as his eyes flicked between yours and your lips.

“I just found the question a little amusing.”

“Why is that, Seresin?” you asked, voice coming out in a whisper. 

“Of course I am, I think I’d be an idiot not to.”

“And you don’t think this is a little bold of you considering the fact that we’re barely even friends?”

“I think it was a little bold of you to bring me down onto the beach to watch the sunset and stargaze while talking about family and Karate Kid… seems a little romantic to me.”

“Well, I apologize that I gave you the wrong impression.” you said, holding eye contact and he wasn’t deterred in the slightest. 

“That’s alright, darlin’, I’m patient.” He sat up suddenly, and you followed him without a second thought. He extended his hand to you and pulled you off the sand, and you found it a little hard to swallow with how close you two were, his hand still in yours, chests brushing. 

“You’ll be waiting quite a long time then, cowboy, because it’s never going to happen.” You walked side by side, making your way up to the beach and to the parking lot where he accompanied you to your car, opening the door but keeping an arm in front of it to prevent you from getting in.

“I think you’ll find as we continue to build this friendship that I’m quite irresistible myself,” he said with a smirk.

“There’s the Hangman I know and loathe,” you said, pushing past him and moving to get into your car. 

“Text me when you get home, yeah?” he asked, voice softening as he watched you sink into the seat. When you nodded he closed the car door, giving you a little wave before you drove off and you tried to shake off the warm feeling in your chest. As you navigated the familiar roads, slipping into autopilot, you convinced yourself there wasn’t any weight to the words he’d said, it was just Hangman being Hangman, finding it impossible to not flirt with anyone that had a pulse. This thought comforted you all the way until you fell into bed, not sending him anything more than an emoji of a house and a thumbs up, allowing sleep to tug at the corners of your mind and deciding you’d pay his flirtations no mind. Just as you almost drifted off into a cozy slumber, you jolted awake as the image of Hangman beneath the moonlight, gazing into your eyes clouded your mind.

“Fucking Seresin,” you groaned. 

previous part / next part

[miss-smutty]

hii i just discovered ur blog and whew wow- tumblr is severely lacking some daddy hemsworth fics so tyyy

idk if your taking requests rn but could i please request something with thor or chris where he’s had a rough day at work or something and is very angry so he’s really rough in bed with you that evening and you love it! also could it include lots of dom!thor/chris and dirty talk bc that’s my weakness

tyyy if u do this sorry if it was too detailed idk ive never sent a request lol but ty hunny <3

So first of all thank you @mysticbonkoperavoid , I'm so glad you like my fics ❤️

And secondly thank you so much for your amazing request, I literally got lost in this filth 🥵🥵 I hope you like it 😘

A/N- This is just pure filth, so consider yourself warned 😂🥵🥵 strictly 18+ only. Dom!Thor literally had me ✨ clenching ✨

Summary- Thor's had a tough day and nothing you do is helping until you let him take out his frustration on you and become his little slut.

Word count- 3,243 of pure filth

Pairing- Thor x reader

Warnings- Smut, filth, dirty talk, rough sex, swearing

18+ only!!!

Taglist-: @innerpaperexpertcloud

Posted: 22nd Feb 2021

⚡A Push Too Far ⚡

Thor had come home from a mission in a foul mood, you'd tried everything to cheer him up. You'd made him his favourite snack, put on his favourite show and even massaged his big, worn out feet. Nothing was working and you were exhausted with the effort. You selfishly couldn't stand the negative atmosphere and just wanted to know how to make him feel better. If he wouldn't tell you what was wrong how could you help? You were so used to him being overly enthusiastic about everything and hated when he was in one of these moods. Something pretty bad must've happened to dampen his mood this much.

"Just tell me what's wrong and I can help" You huff.

"Will you please just forget it? I don't want to talk about it" Thor said, pushing you off gently when you try to touch him. 

"I want to know what's happened to put you in such a sulky mood." You said teasing him, trying to get his attention. If you couldn't get him to talk to you then you would just have to help him take his frustration out in the best way he knows how.

"Please Y/N, stop talking about it" He says exasperated, you're pushing the last of his nerves and you know it. It's exactly what you want, you know what he's capable of when he's angry.

"Make me." You say, seeing the switch in his eyes as his jaw clenched tightly, the muscles in his neck straining against the skin. You backed away from him slowly, knowing all too well what was coming.

The ground shook around you as bolts of lightning flew from Thor and his eyes glowed brightly making you shield your own eyes from the sudden glare. Immediately knowing you'd pushed him too far. You were frightened but more than that you were massively turned on, your pussy clenching with ferocity. You knew he'd never hurt you, well never more than you could handle but still, angry Thor was a feast for the eyes. Delicious.

"You better shut that pretty little mouth of yours before I put it to work" He bellowed, his eyes still glowing and his jaw clenched together tightly.

"Is that a promise?" You say under your breath, watching Thor through your eyelashes as he towered over you.

"On your knees" He commanded, with the power of a God, making you weak as his voice rebounded from the walls of the large, almost empty room with a dramatically high ceiling. 

"But..." You start before he cuts you off.

"Did I stutter? do as you're told" He urged, looking down at your petite frame before him. His powerful demeanor making you do exactly as you were told. Looking up at him with innocent eyes as you knelt on the hard, wooden floor.

He circled around you, like a wolf and his prey, taking in the sight of you kneeling like a victim. Purposefully not touching you, the anticipation of when he would strike making you hold your breath. Your panties are already soaking wet and the buldge in his pants is straining against his trousers.

Thor moves to stand in front of you, his legs planted a foot width apart while he gazes down at you, a slow, wicked smile appearing on his lips. Tortuously, slowly unzipping his trousers and pulling out his lofty length, gripping it firmly with his two hands.

"I think that pretty little face deserves to be fucked" oh fuck, Thor, now you're talking. Now was your turn to smile devishly at Thor, ready and waiting for him to feed your slutty little mouth with his fat cock.

He disappears behind you, you try to turn around to follow him with your eyes but he grabs your hair, pulling you back. It made you ache but not your head, it made your pussy ache. 

"Don't move" He whispers into your ear, still pulling your hair back so you're looking up at him. Pulling a hair tie from his wrist and wrapping it around your hair at the nape of your neck. Wait a minute, where did he get that from? It dawns on you that he's had this planned since the minute he'd got home, the only way he knows how to take his frustration out. Probably knowing you wouldn't be able to take his silent treatment and push him too far in the end anyway. Oh you sneaky man, Thor. 

It feels like a painstakingly long time before he's finally back in front of you, his trousers and boxers now discarded on the floor behind you. Taking in the sight of his thick, muscly thighs and his long, thick cock have you licking your pouty lips. You want to reach up and pull his t-shirt off too but he grabs hold of your wrists as they snake their way up his torso. 

"Ah ah ah, are you going to be good? or am I going to have to tie you up?” He asks in a gruff tone making you put out your bottom lip as you sit back on to your ankles. Your knees beginning to ache from the hard floorboards.

"Does it hurt?" He asks, watching you whince with a satisfied look on his face "Do you want a cushion?" He says in a teasing voice while you nod your head with pleading eyes.

"What do you say?" Bending to pick up the cushion from the couch and holding it out of arms reach, smiling sinfully.

"Please" You say sweetly, more than happy to play his game. Your whole body aching with need. At last he pulls his t-shirt over his head, his biceps flexing as he does, your heart racing at the sight of his ravishing nakedness. That perfect body is all yours.

"Strip" he says seductively looking you up and down, throwing the cushion on the floor by your knees and pulling you up and against his rock hard cock. A squeel emits from your mouth, his hands gripping your cheeks firmly.

You look at him for a second, dumbfounded. You're used to him taking the lead and ripping your clothes off in a heated frenzy, this is new.

Elated with the fact he's allowing you to give him a show for once, you drape the straps of your dress over your shoulder, pushing him down on the couch with a hard shove to the chest. Watching that slow smile spread on his lips and his cock bounce, satisfyingly, with the impact.

Pulling the dress down to your feet and stepping out of it, standing proudly in your lacey underwear. Cocking your eyebrow at him as you hook your thumbs into the side of your panties, pulling them down a fraction. You stop to move closer to him, reaching your hands out to touch his bare skin.

"No touching or I swear I'll tie your hands" He says nonchalantly, his eyes hungry with lust, you pout at him, disappointed you can't touch him.

He watches you intensely as you finish taking off your panties and bra, holding in a giggle when you throw them at him and they hit him square in the face.

"You smell, delicious" He surprises you when he licks his lips, no hint of a smile on his face just that deep intense glare of a predator. The word 'delicious' rolls of his tongue, delectably. The way he stares into your soul, taking in every inch of your nude body, makes your stomach clench, your pussy dripping with arousal.

"Now back on your knees" He says, standing back Infront of you, his cock eye level.

Grabbing your ponytail with one hand and guiding his cock to your mouth with his other. You open your mouth instinctively, widely, like the good little slut you are.

Thor takes no prisoners and rams his cock deep into your mouth, making you gag instantly. Your lips wrap around his cock, the length and thickness filling you up. He yanks your hair backwards so your looking into his eyes while he slams his cock in and out of your mouth.

"Look me in the eyes while you take my cock" oh for the love of God... and Thunder. your pussy is dripping, aching for it. "Good girl" 

He pushes your head down on his cock, as far as you can go. You can feel the tip hitting your tonsils and the shaft throbbing in your mouth. You're gagging, spit dribbling down your chin in a disgusting manner. Your eyes brimming with tears as he rams his cock to the back of your throat. 

"Choke on it" he groans, his head hanging back. You feel the confidence to reach out and cup his balls, knowing he wouldn't chastise you when he's too consumed in the ecstasy of your lips and tongue wrapping around his cock.

"Is that better? Are you satisfied now you've got my full attention?" He looks down at you, a deep hunger in his eyes. You were nowhere near satisfied yet, not until you felt his cock stretching your walls but you couldn't tell him that, he'd just tease you for even longer.

"Mmm" you mumble around the length of his dick.

"Don't talk with your mouth full" he scolds huskily, his voice filled with lust.

You hold onto his firm cheeks while you suck his dick, letting your tongue do the work, running over the full length and teasing the tip. Sucking on the tip, hard, while you grip the base with your hand. You can feel his cock throbbing in your mouth, amazed with how hard he is. You know he's struggling with restraining himself, just as much as you, he'll just never admit it. 

Thor lets out a deep growl, thrusting his dick into your mouth one last time before sharply pulling out with a pop. You were actually upset he'd stopped you, you were enjoying sucking his fat dick. He pulls you up to stand before grabbing your cheeks in his hands and lifting you up, wrapping your legs around him.

You want to kiss him so bad. You hang on to him as he pushes you back against the wall, hard enough to leave a bruise. The feel of his cock thrusting against you has you mewling as he bites hard on your neck. Shivers travel through your entire body, finally feeling his lips against your skin and the thrill of his teeth biting against your neck. The fine line between pain and pleasure being well and truly explored.

You're lost in the feel of his teeth against your skin and muscle, moaning loudly, you barely notice when he sets your feet back onto the ground. Sucking loudly on your neck, your head hanging to the side giving yourself to him freely.

"Im gunna leave marks all over your skin so everybody knows you're mine." He says breathlessly against your skin, his breathe tickling your neck making your hair stand on end, your pussy clenching, agonisingly.

Thor pushes his forearm against your throat so you're locked in between him and the wall, no where to go. Staring into your eyes, making you blush as he pushes two fingers into your mouth without warning.

"Suck" he commands, his voice gruff and deep, oozing authority. You know his fingers are going to delve into you and you can't wait, sucking eagerly on his legthy, stocky fingers.

Before you have time to draw breath, he thrusts his fingers into your opening. Immediately curling them around to find your G-spot. Satisfaction plastered on his face when he hears your moaning, knowing he's got you right where he wants you. 

"You love this, don’t you? Let me hear how much you love it.” He whispers into your ear, his arm still pushing against your throat. You can barely take anymore, his sultry words and his thick fingers making your head spin. Nothing else in the world matters right at this moment, he fills you with narcotic desire. Like a drug to you, you can't get enough, always wondering when you'll get your next fix. If you could get away with making him lose his temper on a daily basis, just so could feel this amount of pleasure, you would.

You moan for him obscenely, you're eyes pooling with desire and hunger. His fingers repeatedly hitting your spot, harshly, bringing you over the edge. Your mouth hangs open, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your pussy clenches around his fingers.

"Does that feel good" he asks captivatingly, holding is arm against your throat and fucking you with his fingers.

"Amazing" You say breathless, the huskiness of your voice surprising you. His face is so close to yours and your senses so hightened that his masculine scent hits your nostrils. His otherworldly fragrance. The smell you long for on those long nights he's away. It hits you and you're consumed by it, your legs starting to shake as your mind loses control. The orgasm rushing from your core.

Then it's gone, just like that. You open your eyes, noticing they're about to burst with tears. You were so close!

"I don't care how good it feels, don't you dare come yet" he says venomously, you honestly feel like your about to start crying. The build up was so intense and then it was just gone and you still feel that deep need. Thor is looking pleased with himself and if you weren't so turned on by the look on his face, you would've slapped him straight across it. Cocky shit! 

You were about to protest, but he saved you from the punishment when he stuck his fingers into your mouth again. Your slickness coated all over them.

"Now see how good you taste, how wet I make you" you looked him in the eyes resentfully and for just a moment you saw his eyes soften. Only a moment before they're filled with fire once more and he's pulling you to the bedroom across the room. Still fighting the urge to finally have his way with you, taking his precious time to tease you beyond your limits. To show you who's the boss around here. As if you ever had any doubts.

Throwing you onto the bed and pushing your knees open with force. You can feel your pussy throbbing with anticipation knowing it's not long until he finally gives you what you've been craving from the start.

Thor effortlessly clamps both of your wrists above your head in a vice like grip with his big, manly hands, leaving you writhing, like his prey, on the bed below him. You breathe a sigh of relief when he finally reaches down to kiss your lips, biting on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Keep your hands here" Emphasising 'here' with a squeeze of your wrists. You try to stay perfectly still while he moves down your body, straining your neck to watch what he does next.

“What a perfect sight, you, all spread out for me to do whatever I want to” he says, positioning himself in-between your legs. Seeing you in all your glory, your pussy dripping wet making him lick his lips.

You gasp when his lips latch on to your inner thigh, so sensitive to his touch. Biting and sucking all the way down each thigh, your going to be covered in hickies come tomorrow morning. You know that's his plan, he loves to see the remnants of the night befores dirty sessions. Even if no one else can see them, he knows they're there, a reminder that you're his.

"Just marking my territory" he reminds you, confirming your suspicions.

"I know exactly what you're doing" you say through gritted teeth, the pain and pleasure unbearable.

"Let’s find out how much you can take before you're begging me for my cock.”

All you can do is nod your head while you bite down on your bottom lip, afraid how shaky your voice will be if you try to speak. 

The sudden slap to your pussy makes you shout out, completely unexpected but hot as fuck all the same, sending shockwaves throughout your whole body.

"You like that?" He slaps you again, hitting your clit with his fingertips and making you convulse uncontrollably. You can see the restraint on Thor's face, the vein protruding from his neck and the tightness in his jaw are the tell tale signs. You know he's about to burst.

"I love to see you squirm now I want to hear you moan" he grabs onto your hips and turns you over, pulling you on to your knees. His movements getting sloppy and desperate now, the lust taking over him.

You inhale as Thor presses the tip of his cock to your opening, brushing it up and down and gathering your wetness. Your legs threaten to give way as he teases you with his cock, you can't stop yourself from pushing yourself back onto him.

"Do you think you deserve my cock?" his voice was heavy with desire. 

"Yes, Thor... Please" you plead, more than worthy after the torture he's put you through.

Thor eases himself in gradually, while you push yourself backwards, no more patience left in you. Holding on to your hips and exhaling, the satisfaction of finally feeling your walls clamping around him. You whince as he slams himself into you with full force, his balls slapping against you. The sounds of sex filling your ears in a glorious way.

"You won't... be able... to walk... after I'm done... with you" he says between every thrust, knocking you forward with every slam. Your orgasm is building already, you can feel your walls tightening, trying to push him out as he holds on to your hips relentlessly.

He grips hold of your ponytail, yanking it backwards, so your head is as far back as it can go, your neck straining. He squats above you, dipping his dick into you, so deep you can feel it in your stomach. This position is fucking everything, he knows you're about to come and sends a slight electrical charge straight through your core just as you release around him. It feels fucking amazing! 

Thor reaches forward and hooks his finger into your mouth, pulling your cheek back as he continually pounds into you. Orgasm after orgasm gushing all over his cock, dribbling out of your aching pussy until you're kneeling in a puddle of your arousal. Your screaming his name, your pussy throbbing, squeezing against his cock. You know he's struggling to restrain when he inhales sharply.

"Dirty fucking slut" he says venomously.

"You fucking love it don't you?" His voice is breathless and deep, you can't take much more. The power of your come is pushing him out, making you ridiculously tight. You can feel his cock twinging as his powerful come shoots into you, he roars so loudly the bed shakes around you. You finally collapse into the bed head first, your knees giving way as he rests against you with his cock still inside of you, twitching and convulsing.

"Are you ok, baby?" Thor asks sweetly, his frustration finally dissipated, rubbing your ass cheeks tenderly.

"More than ok" you say breathless and tired, rolling over onto your back underneath him and pulling him down on to you.

Finally his lips are on yours, passionately, forcing your mouth open and stroking your tongue with his. Kissing you like his life depended on it, making up for the hours spent without the feel of your lips on his. A deep feeling of satisfaction washed over you, he's yours and you're his and you can fuck like animals but still collapse into each other arms lovingly afterwards.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong now?" You tease, making him laugh a great big belly laugh as he pulls you over on top of him.

[seychellse]

Hey y'all! I'm trying to get a bit more familiar with writing smut so I'm trying out a few more suggestive pieces with some prompts! I'm starting with Nanami too bc gawd. I don't submit to ANY man but he would turn me into a 50s housewife I swear to god. Plz I wanna bear this man's children SO BAD

warnings: nsfw, overuse of the word 'dominance' and 'control', power struggle, shameless manhandling of male titties

pairing: Nanami x fem!reader, Gojo at first too but fuck that guy it ain't about him right now

wc: <1k

Prompt: Who's really on top?

Satoru Gojo may be the strongest sorcerer in the world, but he’s still just Satoru to you - goofy and annoying. You bet once you could easily beat the cockiness out of him if he ever turned off that damned Infinity, and knock him down a peg to force him into remembering his place below you; exactly where he belonged. It's pretty easy to get him to that point, actually; a bet won in your favour had him do exactly that, and you relished the opportunity to get one over him. Red-faced and sweaty, he gasped and whined underneath you, begging for release while you rode him to exhaustion and brought him to the edge of climax over and over again until he learned his place, begged you oh-so sweetly and conceded to you in a manner that was satisfactory before you let him cum all over himself in disgrace.

Nanami, on the other hand? He never needed raw power to be powerful or prove his authority, and you'd find that out the hard way. Trying the same song and dance on him hadn't worked out entirely in your favour, but you couldn't pretend you weren't enjoying yourself. In trying to assert your dominance over him, you found that even on the bottom, Kento would always be on top - and that was never going to change.

“Nanami…” You whine, one hand resting on the flat plane of his belly and the other stuck to your pebbled nipple.

“What is it? Use your words.”

You can barely remember to stay upright, let alone form a sentence that would make sense to your addled mind. Stuck between wanting to lay down and grind on him, and working through your pride to its inevitable end, you let your limbs decide for you and sag just a tiny amount, leaning back on your heels and spreading yourself open for his eyes to drink you in. All the while you flex around the solid length inside you, persistent even after two separate rounds, and try to return his aquiline stare. More than anything, you want to draw out some kind of emotion that would validate his deference to your domination.

But again and again, all you're met with is his solid demeanour. Nanami's expression underneath you changes only slightly, as if to mock your lofty desire to have him under your thumb, and your inability to materialise his submission despite every attempt you've made to ensure it.

Trying a different tactic, you bring your fingers up to his chest, circling the pink nipples with a feather-light touch and tapping the buds in interest. When that doesn't arouse any movement or noise from the impassive sorcerer, you risk your own position and bend towards him, aligning your own buds with his and sliding up against him to generate some friction on your sensitive spots. The action has you choking back your own groan, losing yourself in the feeling of his chest against yours as you rub him up and down with your own body and shamelessly build up the heat between the two of you.

In response, he just rolls his hips, eyebrows raised. Challenging you. He makes a pleased noise, but as soon as it leaves his throat it's swallowed up by your own throaty whines as the shift sets off his own movement, and accidentally-on-purpose causes his happy trail to grind delicately up and down your clit, already oversensitised from the first pop. The sensation forces your to screw your eyes shut and keen in longing, considering giving up the charade but your pride refuses to allow it. You press on despite the numbness, needing more than anything for Nanami to just drop the act, place his hands firmly on your tush and just have him squeeze, give back the control he already knows he has whenever the two of you engage in this dance. He's not so easily swayed, however; more than enjoying the show of you trying to remain in control and how easily you slip with only the most simple of touches. His hands remain firmly at his sides despite your insistence on bringing them to where you want them to be.

Clenching around him once more, both your hands stop their movement to fall to either side of him as you do your best to remain on top through your third orgasm of the night. You had asked for this, after all. All he was doing was obliging you, ever watchful from below as you tried and failed to assert your own dominance.

He smiles then; a sight rare enough to see from your stoic lover, and it sends an aftershock straight through you, travelling from the centre of your chest and settling in the place where the two of you are joined together. A long, lewd noise escapes your lips and you lean back, trying to catch your breath and move off him to stop the pulsating feeling making your mind incapable of functioning. He stops you full in your tracks, pulling you down to his side but keeping you connected at the hip. Bastard - he knows exactly what he's done to you and he revels in your dishevelled appearance on top of him, never truly in control despite your hubrid belief that you ever could be. Warmth blooms inside you as he makes himself comfortable beside you and he fixes you with an imposing stare, hazel eyes for once not veiled by his little goggles. The intensity of his eyes on you makes you simultaneously curl up on yourself and arch up into him, cowed but still needing his reassurance that you did well.

“Do you understand who’s in charge here, now?”

“Ye-yes.” You lower your gaze in submission, both embarrassed and horny in equal amounts.

“Good. Know your place, girl.”

[gallickingun]

break the glass {in case of emergency} || t.s.

SUMMARY: Todoroki Shouto needs help, so he hires a nanny. More specifically, he hires you. 

PAIRING: Pro Hero!Shouto x Fem!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: language, smut, slight violence, etc. WORD COUNT: 21.2k+

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* TAG LIST *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ is at the end of this post!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is the definition of a labor of love. big thanks to @k-atsukidayo, @freckledoriya, and @lady-bakuhoe for keeping me sane. and super shoutout to my love @shoutogepi bc she’s been my hype lady! i hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations because wow has it been a wild ride ♡

if you like this, feel free to request more HERE!

Shouto’s feet are trudging through the proverbial thick of life.

His ankles twist the further he tries to advance, and with every step forward, another tragedy breaks the fragility of the glass box he now lives in. The etching begins at the center, spreading out into cracks like lightning, threatening to shatter what remains of the clear cage.

And yet, Shouto must put on the mask, he must pretend that everything is fine when in fact he really would rather crumble to the floor with his hands in his hair. There are nights when he presses his palms into his temples, wishing and praying that someone out there might be listening so they can help him to will away the painful throbbing between his eyes. He can’t whimper, can’t make a sound, because if he does, if he withdraws the curtain and allows the world to know how inundated he truly is, then it will all be for naught.

“Daddy?”

Shouto blinks harshly to bring himself out of the vortex of his trepid thoughts, “Hey, love, what are you doing awake?”

Her teetering body scrambles into the room, pawing at the bedsheets as a broken sob parts her lips and shakes her chest. Shouto leans down to tuck his hands under her armpits, jolting her upward so she’s pressed into his chest. Her small hands grip onto the skin of his pectorals, thin fingernails scraping at his flesh. Shouto winces, but cradles her around the back regardless, the warmth of her heated cheek on his collarbone alarming.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asks, soothing one of his hands through her hair while the other rests splayed against her back, dipping gently to try and ease her crying. She doesn’t answer, hiccupping cries making her whole body shake as she clutches onto him.

“Hey,” Shouto presses his lips to the crown of her head before coaxing her head backward. He tucks his thumb underneath her chin, “Talk to me.”

The little girl’s lower lip is wobbling, eyes doe-like and full of tears, thick white eyelashes dense with the little saltine droplets. She palms at Shouto’s face with one hand, seeming ancient when she whispers, “Why did they take mommy from me?”

And just like that, the glass box shatters.

Shouto feels the explosion, but maintains his composure regardless of the impact. Shards lodge into his throat and lungs, painful twinges jutting into his insides. His voice feels jagged when he speaks next, grating against his esophagus and tongue, “Sometimes the world just isn’t fair, love. I wish I had a better answer for you, but there’s not always a perfect explanation.”

Her bejeweled turquoise eyes behold him, thumbs against his mouth as she stares up at him. Glassy irises are blown wide by frightened pupils, “I miss her.”

She collapses back into him like a star shattering in the galaxy, explosive tears dripping down his chest as she tremors. The implosion of her life plays before him in the form of an empty half of the bed, a bare side of the bathroom, and a nightstand still left unembellished despite having been there for almost two years.

“I miss her too,” Shouto murmurs into the child’s silvery hair.

If he sheds a few silent tears of his own, she does not admonish him for it, instead laying quietly until her tears and shaking sobs have exhausted her tiny body. Her lips part and she begins to drool into the pocket of his collarbone, hands twitching against his chest.

A gentle melody vibrates Shouto’s lungs as he rolls himself to the side, carefully displacing her from his body to the empty half of the bed. The toddler grabs for him as soon as the warmth of his body disappears, and Shouto focuses all of his energy into regulating the warmth of his left side. He brushes his thumb over her cheek, pushing her silken hair from her mouth so it does not stick with her drool.

He chuckles, tucking her locks behind her ear, cupping her cheek with his warm palm, “Good night, Hana.”

The only acknowledgement he receives is a gentle snore that flares her nostrils and expands her chest, small body only looking tinier in the large expanse of the king-sized bed. Shouto lies there in wonder, his heated hand keeping in contact with her body until she halts her shivering.

How did I get so lucky? He thinks to himself, the threat of tears pressing intensely against the backs of his eyelids. He can’t close them, though, because he’s afraid he might miss a moment of his daughter’s sorrow.

Shouto leans forward to press a kiss to her furrowed brow, the familiar weight of his lips on her head giving her the comfort she needs to release the tension in her sleep. Her expression mellows, the crinkles in her forehead smoothing until she looks something akin to peaceful, ethereal.

The last thing Shouto sees before his mind succumbs to the lure of unconsciousness is her silvery hair glistening in the moonlight of the bedroom, her tiny palm wrapped around his index finger, clutching on like he were her lifeline.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“I can handle this on my own.”

“This isn’t just another assignment. This is your daughter, Shouto.”

His nostrils flare, “Yeah, and?”

Fuyumi rolls her eyes, containing herself by taking a deep breath through the nose. Shouto’s eyes wander as Hana teeters around the kitchen with a few crayons and a plush rabbit.

“There’s no reason to keep yourself from admitting you need help, Shouto,” Fuyumi grits her teeth and attempts to appear somehow cheerful, even if just for Hana’s sake. She flexes her jaw, “This is an insanely large house, brother. You could use the extra hands.”

Shouto narrows his eyes, the scar over his left side appearing even more intimidating when his expression shifts, “You’re not moving in here, ‘Umi. I’ll figure something else out.”

His sister runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head as she turns her attention to the toddler bobbing her head to an invisible jukebox as she colors another page in her book. Fuyumi licks her lips, “Listen, will you at least call her? She’s great with kids, and she’s between jobs right now. It could at least turn into a short-term benefit for the both of you.”

After a moment of aggressive silence, Shouto nods. He decides, internally, that his agreement is purely out of the recognition that it will force his sister to let the topic rest.

“I’ll call her.”

“Thank you,” Fuyumi’s chest deflates, releasing a pent-up breath she had been holding in unexpectedly. She sifts her fingers through Hana’s hair, thumbing at her ear gingerly, “I know you hate that I loom over you like another mother, but I just want to make sure that you’re both taken care of.”

Shouto’s expression softens, eyes turning from jeweled beads to something more pliable. His chest tightens at her admission, the reality of their situation doing nothing to lighten the burden on his shoulders. He takes a step towards his sister, praying she can see the sincerity in his eyes as he speaks, “I’ll be okay, ‘Umi. I promise.”

Fuyumi allows herself a moment to take in the sight of Shouto’s twenty-one month old child, watching as she scribbles her crayons onto the coloring book in front of her with as much precision as she can muster. A somber smile tugs on her lips and she sighs, closing her eyes as she readjusts her glasses, “I just worry about you, is all. Taking over a large agency is a lot of work, especially with the added pressure of being a good father.”

“I will be a good father,” Shouto is quick to refute her lofty accusations, the intensity of his voice causing Hana to turn her attention from her book to her father. He narrows his eyes at his sister, “I won’t turn out like dad.”

Holding her hands up in mock-surrender, Fuyumi takes a step back, “I know, Shouto. Trust me, I know.” Her eyes are wide and Shouto feels fear grip his spine like a cold shadow, curling up into him and suffocating his throat. He wants to gasp but he cannot show weakness, not now. Fuyumi inhales a short breath, “You’re the furthest thing from our father. Which is why I think you should seriously consider reaching out, getting another pair of hands on deck.”

Shouto considers her, tilting his head. The implications that his ability at caring for his daughter makes his chest constrict, heart aching in a way he’s never felt before. His eyes dart downward, catching on the silver hair of his child as she sits on the floor, grubby hands gripping at crayons while she smears color all over the pages of her book.

“I’ll call her,” he repeats his words from earlier. “I will.”

Fuyumi reaches out to take her brother into a hug, breathing her peaceful nature onto him like a ghost begging to infiltrate his body. Shouto takes a long drag, lips parted when he wraps his arms around his sister’s smaller frame.

As his sister is leaving, Hana’s eyes focus on the door. Todoroki can’t help himself wonder for a moment if she believes that someone else might come walking back across the threshold, if only she were to look at just the perfect moment. The sun shines on Fuyumi’s figure, forcing a silhouette onto the floorboards of the entryway. If he were to squint the right way, it’s possible he could see her outline there, darkness shaped by the light.

Shouto must bite the inside of his cheek to keep his mind still.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Later that evening, when Shouto has his daughter resting in the crook of his arm, an educational children’s program playing on the television for background noise, he pulls his phone from his pocket to sift through text messages and emails. There are dozens of alerts to sort through, but the one thing his fingers keep returning to is the sight of your contact information in a message forwarded to him by his sister.

If you are every as bit as wonderful and kind as Fuyumi says you are, then Shouto is frightened of what you are capable of, based on your resume and photograph alone.

Not only do you have a stunning personality – caring, gentle, organized – but you have a beautiful outward appearance as well. Shouto notices the curve of your lips, the structure of your jaw and cheeks, and the way your eyes lilt upward at the camera.

The one thing Shouto hates the most about himself, the very being engrained within him to emulate, is that he was brought up worrying about these different kinds of things – the anatomy of a potential candidate.

It’s the Todoroki within him, the lurking presence of his father threatening to stifle his breathing, to suffocate him until Enji is the only glowing ember left in his charred, desolate soul. Shouto sits in the dark, the looming reality that he may very well end up exactly like his father forcing him to press the little green button at the bottom of the screen.

You pick up on the second ring, “Hello?”

“H-Hi there,” Shouto’s voice sticks in his throat.

A gentle laugh from the other end of the line makes his heart stop beating within the confines of his chest, “What can I do for you?”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Shouto has never been so worried about the interior design of his house before.

He realizes suddenly that there are no photographs on the walls, no pictures hanging to tell the sad tale of his life story. The recognition of this little detail only further throws him into a darkness he knows he won’t ever be able to fully crawl out of. Every day he must fight this beast, this unseen presence that sits on his shoulders, forcing him to carry the burden. He’s never wanted to tell his life story, not with the way it played out, especially not now.

Abusive father. Hospitalized mother. Deceased wife.

When the doorbell rings, he pulls himself from his stupor to step forward into the foyer. Shouto takes a deep breath and curls his toes into the rug to ground his body as he turns the doorknob. It’s as if the door stands for something much weightier, a distance currently built between you and him, something he can control.

But when the heavy door gives way to the sunshine outside, your body casting an elongated shadow on the hardwood, Shouto’s ankles lock and his fingers still against metal.

“Todoroki Shouto?”

The sound of your voice, completely unadulterated from the natural static of a phone, makes Shouto’s head spin. He nods, swallowing so hard his throat bobs, “Yes, please come in.”

You kick your shoes off as soon as you step across the threshold, tucking them to the side near the other pairs of dress shoes and sneakers accompanied by little ballerina slip-ons and tiny formal shoes. He notices the way your eyes linger on the pink ballerina slippers that aren’t really shoes at all, more like glorified socks, and he has to hold back a chuckle.

Shouto raises his hand in a greeting, kicking the door closed with his ankle as he turns to face you, “Thank you for meeting me.”

“I appreciate you interviewing me,” you answer him, reaching forward to meet his handshake. You’re grinning when he makes eye contact with you, cheeks round with your smile. “I know that your schedule is very hectic.”

Shouto can’t think about it too much or it makes his brain throb within his skull. He grits his teeth, “Yes, my assistant was able to push out a few other unimportant meetings for this. I do apologize, but my daughter is currently with my sister. I thought it may be best for us to meet first and then decide if it will be a good fit before we introduce her into the situation.”

“I can respect that.” You smile, wrapping your arms around your waist as you stand in front of him. The surprising warmth from his hand sits with you, palm tingling even as it’s tucked between your body. A nervous laugh parts your lips as your feet shuffle, “I wouldn’t want to get too attached to her if you didn’t like me.”

Shouto chuckles, his eyes darting to his toes, “Oh, it’s not you I would be afraid of being incompatible. Hana can be very picky.”

Your thumbs dig into your biceps, rolling your lips together as you consider your reply. A soft padding forward of your feet on the dense rug makes little sound, but still breaks Todoroki’s gaze from the floor.

“You’d be surprised,” your left eye dropping in a wink. “I have quite the effect on people. Especially those who stand three feet and shorter.”

He is shocked to find himself grinning at your jesting remark, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he shuffles a step backward from you. You tilt your head, eyes washing over his tall frame, “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Todoroki. Usually children are withdrawn from their caretakers because they fear we’re trying to replace someone more important in their lives.”

You are closer to him now as you stride across the tile. Todoroki feels his chest constrict when you speak, “I’m not here to be anything more than supplemental. You set the boundaries, Mr. Todoroki, and those are what I will abide by without a shadow of a doubt. I’m here to do as much or as little as you need of me.”

It takes him a moment to recuperate, faltering before he replies, “I appreciate that. I-I’ve never done this before. I wasn’t planning on it.”

Shouto notices the way you visibly shrink away from him, understanding the subliminal tones in his words. He holds a hand in the air, palm face-up, “No, that’s not, I just-”

A sigh parts his lips and he looks back down at his feet, but you’re careening forward to save the day before he can dig himself further into a hole he’s already drowning in. You chuckle, “I don’t think many people choose to have children only to set them into the hands of a nanny, Mr. Todoroki. You needed help, that much is clear, and I don’t blame you for reaching out. I think being able to push through your pride and do what is best for your child is not something you should be ashamed of.”

Oh yes, Todoroki thinks to himself with a smirk on his lips, hand outstretched towards you again, He’s going to like you just fine.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

You did not imagine your initial meeting with Todoroki Hana to go like this.

Shouto’s voice is mildly frantic on the other line, which is telling in it of itself. Even upon your first meeting, you knew that he was to be a mild-mannered, easy-going man. He does not seem to be a person who is easily upset by much, so the lilt in his voice is a clear indicator to his mood.

“It’s okay,” you try to remain calm in spite of his fear, praying that your clear head can help him to unwind. “I’m sure she’s fine, Mr. Todoroki. I’m already in the car, on the way to the daycare right now. I’ll go pick her up and call you as soon as I have my eyes on her.”

A breath is exhaled from the other end of the receiver, and you can imagine the way his chest deflates at your words. You smile to yourself, phone pressed to your ear as you drive down the highway, “It will only take me twenty minutes. Until then, try to keep yourself busy, okay?”

The two of you exchange pleasantries before you close your phone, slipping it back underneath your thigh before focusing on the road again. You were thankful that Shouto had already installed a car seat into back row, allowing you to go pick up Hana without having to do too much extra preparation.

Driving to the daycare facility takes eighteen minutes on one stretch of highway. You feel your palms sweat the entire way, recalling Todoroki’s words about Hana’s injuries she sustained on the playground not very long ago. The tremor in his voice sent a jolt down your spine, your bones rattling around in your body as you imagine the dozens of different cuts or gashes she might have on her body.

And then there’s the reality that this will be the first time you ever lay eyes on Todoroki Hana. It will be your reckoning day, the deciding moment of happenstance when she makes the choice of whether or not you are worthy of her acceptance.

You park and walk into the building, your eyes wavering over the entire intricate structure. It’s a formation of pillars and high roofing, accented with filigree of metal curved into beautiful shapes. The price point of this facility does not go over your head, given the marble pillars look genuine, smooth and rounded in all the right places. You run your fingertips over the cool stone as you walk to the thick, mahogany door. The doorknob is sparkling gold, as if someone polished it when they saw you park.

All the details wrapped into a pristine package ease your mind about the salary that Todoroki Shouto is paying you. Originally, you’d wanted to fight him on it, but you acquiesced into silence after taking note of his watch and the name brand of his suit jacket.

Your hand shoves at the front door, weighted and dense, and you step up to the front desk. Resting your forearms on the top of the divider, you smile down at her, “Hi, I’m here to pick up Todoroki Hana.”

It’s clear this woman has never seen you before by the way her eyes gawk over your appearance. You may not be dressed as pristinely as she might like, but you still look rather presentable, given the time restraints you were under to come pick up the young girl.

She tilts her head as if considering you like prey before grabbing up the phone on her desk, muttering a few words into the receiver. As she hangs up, she holds out a clipboard, “We’ll need a copy of your ID. Mr. Todoroki called ahead to let us know you’d be coming, but we’d just like confirmation. For Hana’s safety.”

It all makes sense, and is rather sound policy, but the curl of her lips when she says it forces a vat of acid into your stomach. You swallow your retort that is sitting on your tongue like a knife and gently take the board from her hand.

As you’re filling out the paperwork, the sound of little footsteps starts down the hallway. You tilt your head, pen stilled in your grip, awaiting what feels like your very own doomsday. This little almost two-year-old holds your fate in her tiny, grubby hands.

You stand and replace the clipboard onto the front desk, sliding your ID along with it. Turning your head, you await the arrival of your own two-foot-tall guillotine. You twist your hands together, knuckles wrung out white as you wait for Hana to approach the curve of the hallway and seal your fate. You know you should not be this anxious over a child who has just broken into real sneakers, but the rational part of you never wins out in these kinds of situations.

Todoroki Shouto is paying you something on the upside of expensive, offering you a generous starting bonus in addition to your typical pay so you could start working earlier than expected and still make your rent payments without worry. It would be a shame to lose that thick paycheck just because you could not win over a teetering toddler who probably babbles about princesses and the color purple most of the day.

“Hana, it looks like your-”

“Nanny,” you interject as you hear the voice echoing down the hall, attempting to avoid any confusion if possible. You brush your thighs free of any imaginary dust and crumbs so you can hide the shaking of your joints, “I work for Mr. Todoroki.”

When they finally round the corner, you stop breathing.

The little girl standing in front of you cannot be much over two feet tall, bright blue eyes shining as she drinks you in apprehensively. Her pupils shrink the closer she gets, bejeweled eyes swallowed by the inkiness. Her hands fidget at her sides while she stutter-steps towards you. The long locks of pale, silver hair reach midway down her back, the curled tips giving her an almost doll-like appearance with their perfection. Her full lips are drawn inward, tentative, much like her father.

And there, covering her right eye, a gauze bandage attempting to staunch and protect a wound.

You cannot help the way your eyes widen at the sight of her injured face, your hands ready to snag her up and race her to the nearest emergency room. Todoroki hadn’t told you the extent of her injuries, just that she had an accident on the playground, and someone needed to pick her up immediately.

“Hi Hana,” you squat down so you can appear to her at eye-level, an effort to put her at ease. “Your daddy heard you took a fall outside with your friends and he wanted me to come pick you up. Are you okay?”

She has obviously been crying, cheeks dark red and swollen, her visible eye puffy from tears. Your inner nature is telling you to reach out and comfort her, taking her by the hand and drawing her up into your arms to give her a gentle squeeze. But you know that there is a time and place and threshold for each form of affection, so you withdraw.

“How bad is it?” You turn your gaze upward, calves screaming as you shift your weight. You seek out the eyes of her teacher, trying to gauge your reaction based on her body language, “It doesn’t look like it’s bleeding too much now, and she’s rather calm. Was her eye directly injured?”

“No, it’s just around the orbital,” her teacher runs fingertips through Hana’s hair, “I don’t think she’ll need stitches, but she will definitely need this wound cleaned up by a professional. I know Mr. Todoroki has a nurse he usually calls.”

It’s as if these women are trying to suffocate you with their knowledge of Todoroki, almost like them knowing he has a nurse, or not knowing he’d hired you until today, would win them some sort of award or accolade. You try your best not to let your stomach turn at the sight of them, desperate and petty.

“Hana?”

She tilts her head up at you, another round of tears welling up in her eyelids. You wonder if it is from stress, pain, or a mixture of that and the uncomfortable feeling she can sense from the way you’re interacting with the daycare staff. She sniffles and wipes her face with the back of her forearm, careful of her injured eye, “Y-Yes ma’am?”

So Shouto has taught her manners.

You attempt to keep your composure at the sound of her tinny, trepid voice echoing out the words that are normally rare for even full-grown adults to use. In reaching out your hand, you notice she does not shrink away from you, not this time, “I think we ought to go have that nurse of your dad’s check out your eye, what do you think?”

There is silence for a moment, genuine concern evident in her sparkling irises. She blinks quickly, like she is trying to figure you out before she makes her decision in response to your question. You don’t want to clue her in to the fact that, at the end of the day, it’s not really her choice to make – that plight between staying here and going somewhere else has been completely left up to you.

“You know,” you’re whispering now, dramatically hiding your mouth behind the palm of your hand, pretending that that others standing around can’t hear you. “I think that I saw this cool ice cream shop on the way here. You think you could help me try a new flavor?”

This makes her eyes widen, pushing herself up on her tiptoes as she fails to contain her excitement at the suggestion of a sugary treat, “Wh-What flavor?”

You grin, warmth seeping into your chest as a giggle bubbles up in her throat, “I was thinking bubblegum, or maybe cotton candy?”

Hana’s nose scrunches at the suggestion, “No way!”

“Well,” you stand to your full height, hands on your hips as you pout, “what would you rather have then?”

She is full-on smiling now, cheeks drawn upward so her dimples can dip into her cheeks on either side, “I like mint w-with choco-chips in it!”

You hold your hand out again, praying that now, after divulging your favorite ice cream flavors, she won’t totally reject you. The last thing you want is for her to force your hand in making a decision to pick her up and take her out of the daycare.

Hana pushes herself up and down on her toes, biting her lip before bursting with a smile, “Y-You really mean it?! Ice cream?”

“I don’t see why not,” you shrug, wriggling your fingers as the other women watch on in amazement as your connection to the child. “I think you deserve it after that nasty fall you took.”

Bouncing towards you, Hana bobs into the air by pushing upward on the balls of her feet. She reaches out and snags your hand into her grip of her own accord, before beginning to tug you to the exit. She is babbling on about all of the ice cream flavors she’s tried, and what they taste like, and the last time she had ice cream was oh so long ago…

“See you later, ladies,” you wave over your shoulder, unable to hide the satisfied smirk making your mouth crooked, “I guess we’re going to get ice cream.”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Hana knows how to buckle herself in, so she’s already clambering up into your car as soon as you have the door open. Her injury is completely forgotten as she bustles up into the seat, climbing in awkwardly before turning around to plop her backside into the curve of the cushions. Her fingers are frantic as she desperately tries to get the straps clicked together so you can be on your way to the nearest ice cream shop. You smile at her struggle, allowing her to settle with a pout before offering her your help.

“I-I can do it!” she insists, eyes misted. “I-I’m a big girl!”

“Oh, no doubt,” you shake your head in reassurance, pursing your lips as you hold your hands up in midair, palms facing her. “I’m just trying to help so we can get to our ice cream just a tad faster.”

Your reasoning seems to be sound, because Hana releases the offending buckle and puts her hands on either side of her car seat to give you enough room to maneuver and snap the contraption in place. Your hands make swift work of the buckles and straps, tightening them to the perfect spot on her chest and hips. She smiles up at you when you’re finished, expectant and excited.

It is strange, the intense desire to protect her that immediately washes over you at first sight. You have to stop yourself from rushing into allowing her between the cracks of your heart. You are frantic to seal them so you can let yourself down easy if this job ends up being as short-term as you’re worried of it becoming.

You pull away from her, face blank, and shut the door as Hana begins to fiddle with the remaining length of the straps around her body. Her fingers swirl around the black fabric and plastic, tugging and pulling, but not hard enough to adjust any of your hard work.

On your way to the parlor, you decide to call Shouto.

“Daddy!”

A relieved sigh sounds from the other end of the receiver, and you can’t help the warmth that blooms in your belly when you grin. Shouto coughs thickly, clearing his throat, “Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay!” Hana twirls her fingers in midair, watching around like Todoroki may appear out of thin air like his voice echoing in the car. “We’re going to get ice cream!”

“Ice cream?” his voice sounds slightly judgmental, but you try to push it off and pretend it means nothing. You spare a glance over your shoulder, “Tell him what flavor you’re getting, Hana.”

You pull into the drive through window of the ice cream shop, listening as Hana babbles on about the different flavors you two talked about and whether she’ll get a cone or a cup. You put the car in park as the person in front of you orders, swiveling your hips so you can look her in the eye, “I was actually thinking about a milkshake. How does that sound?”

“Ooh,” her eyes grow wider, chubby little hands curling into fists in her lap. She’s practically buzzing at just the thought of it all, “That sounds like fun!”

You chuckle, hand on the gearshift, “Oh, I meant to ask, have you already scheduled the nurse to be at the house? I wasn’t sure if you’d rather it be someone personal to look after her, or if you’d want me to take her to a general hospital.”

“I’ll call Masuyo and have her meet you at the house.” Todoroki’s voice is muffled as he turns to speak with someone else in his office, hand over the receiver. You hear him cough, voice tense, “S-She’s okay, though. Right?”

“I think she’s a strong girl,” you make your voice confident, straightening your spine, “she’ll be fine once we get her cleaned up. Right, Hana?”

You spare one final look at the little girl in the backseat, all bright eyes and buzzing fingertips. She’s already shuddering off of pure energy, and you wonder if sugar was really the best route to go down for her comfort. Either way, she nods her head, enthusiastic about what’s to come next.

“Yes!” She leans forward in her seat, getting closer to his voice, “I can’t wait until you get home, daddy. We’ll play prince and princess, right?”

You can sense the hesitation on Todoroki’s end and your heart turns to granite in your chest. When he speaks, you feel the weight of it settle in your belly, throat tightening.

“I’m not sure, love. I’ll have to see. It’s very busy this afternoon.”

Hana allows her expression to fall for a mere moment. You honestly would not have caught the change in her demeanor if it weren’t for you studying her as Shouto uttered the words. Every bit of enthusiasm that was previously holding her cheeks high is drained. Her face pales and her lips turn downward in a frown, eyes dropped to her hands as she fiddles with her knuckles in her lap.

And yet, almost as soon as she falters, her smile returns, albeit not enough to light up her eyes as it did before. It’s like she is reconstructing a mask that she feels pressured to wear in order to keep her father satiated and undisturbed.

“Oh, that’s okay, daddy,” Hana’s voice is as cheerful as her little strong will can force it to be. She attempts to be dismissive as she waves her hands, despite Shouto unable to see her, “I played princess at school anyway.”

Your heart continues to crack as she says her final line, “I love you, Daddy.”

Shouto exhales, voice breathy when he repeats the sentiment, “I love you more.”

“I love you most.” Hana’s tone lilts then, a crack in her metaphorical armor at his affections despite his absence. She swipes at her face and you wonder if she was crying, because you certainly didn’t see any tears.

Your throat grows thick with emotion, making it difficult for you to tell him goodbye. You roll down your window and rattle off your order, trying to keep a close watch out of the corner of your eye to monitor Hana’s mood and expressions as the moments progress. You feel horrible for intruding on their very personal, private moment, and it only makes your heart wrench more when you see Hana’s glazed eyes unable to focus on one thing in particular. She’s docile, void of emotion as she stares out of the window, watching clouds pass as the world grows darker with the threat of a sunset on the horizon.

You settle the milkshakes into the front seat, finishing up at the drive through window before rolling forward into a vacant parking space. With your foot still on the break, you reach back to hand Hana the small milkshake cup with the straw already pushed through the opening on the lid, “There you go.”

She takes it from you gingerly, small palms wrapping around as much of the cup circumference as she possibly can. Her lips are pouted just enough that you wonder if she’ll take a sip at all. You busy yourself, pretending to clean up trash in the front seat and maneuver things around on the floorboards, waiting on her first drag from the ice cream cup.

But it never comes.

After five minutes of waiting, you press your hand to the passenger’s side headrest and look her in the eye – as much of her pupils that you can catch in spite of her hooded lids. Hana is still dazed, looking into her milkshake cup as if it might have the answers to all of her life’s confusing questions.

“Hana?” Your voice calls her from whatever lull she was in, eyes blinking slow as she connects back to this version of reality. A vague, “Yes?” is uttered from her lips, but she isn’t focused, not just yet. You brush your hand against the top of her knee, quick and gentle, and it does the trick. She blinks one final time before her pupils dilate back to their usual size, gaze settled clearly on your face.

“Did something upset you?” you ask, your hand wrung around the headrest again. “Or do you just not want your milkshake?”

“I dunno,” Hana admits quickly, eyes downturned once she realizes she’s let the emotion slip from her voice. It makes the edges of her words raw and ragged, “I guess I just don’ wan’ it anymore.”

You are persistent; your job is to make her happy and keep her safe, and right now with a milkshake melting in her lap, part of you feels like you’re failing.

“Was it what your dad said?” Your question is asked in a low tone, something you’re trying to use to convey that you are being patient and kind. You take a chance and rest your palm against the car seat armrest, close enough to make contact but not adjacent enough to infringe upon her personal space. You swallow thickly, taking a short breath, “About not being home to play?”

Hana is pinching the straw between her fingers, looking into the little opening as it closes with the squeeze of her fingers. You wonder if she does this often, with tangible objects. Does she ache to control something so much so that she becomes lost in the euphoria of it all?

She sighs, kicking her feet, “Daddy is just always working. It makes me sad sometimes.”

You aren’t sure how to respond, not really. If you had known her for longer, or met Todoroki some other way, you could likely refute her statement. However, there’s truth in what she’s saying, a vulnerability that you weren’t sure you would see from the child so soon.

When she speaks next, Hana reminds you of a full-grown woman, attempting to redirect the conversation from something personal to something vague, “What’id you get?”

Her voice sounds like an echo of her true self, nothing like the way her tone lilted when she first spoke with her father. There is a seemingly eerie mask she has perfected, something both audible and emotional. And it would appear she knows just how to slip it on and off when the time is right, despite her young age.

Then and there you choose to burden yourself with the purpose of breaking her out of her glass box of entrapment.

“I got cookie dough,” you say as you take an over-dramatic sip, crossing your eyes at the sensation of cool ice cream flowing down your throat, “What did you get?”

Her face scrunches inward, nose wrinkling at the bridge, “Y-You know what I got, don’ you? You ordered it for me!”

You make an exaggerated face of confusion, tilting your head backward and tapping your fingertip against your chin. “Hmm,” you nod, agreeing with her accusation, “I guess you’re right, huh?”

“You’re silly,” Hana giggles before going in for her first sip of her milkshake. Her eyes are narrowed downward at the cup, hands cradling it carefully as if it were the most important thing in the world and she might be in danger of spilling it at any moment. Her eyes are wide, doe-like in nature, as she comes up for air, “This is good!”

“Great,” you answer her, switching the gearshift back into drive so you can pull out of the parking lot and out onto the highway to head back to their house.

The remainder of the drive back to the Todoroki residence is spent in moderate silence, gentle music playing on the radio as Hana preoccupies herself with licking every last drop of her milkshake from the straw. She sucks the mint chocolate chip ice cream from her thumb and looks up at you when you park the car in the driveway, “We’re home?”

You unbuckle yourself from your seat and answer her, hopping down from the car to open her door. She’s already working at her buckles, undone the top half, but still struggling with the bottom. By the time you’ve gotten her undone from the chair, she trusts you enough to reach out her arms and ask for you to help her down to the ground so she does not have to clamber down and risk falling onto the concrete.

When the soles of her shoes hit the concrete, she’s reaching up for you, grabbing you around your fingertips to hold on as she walks. You squeeze her hand gently, fishing the keys out with one hand to unlock the door.

The nurse is already inside, set up on the couch. Hana runs straight to her, plopping herself unceremoniously down on the furniture, hand hovering over the patch as she talks with Masuyo about her ice cream experience from just moments ago.

You busy yourself with dinner, prepping meat and vegetables, as Masuyo starts to clean and treat Hana’s wound. It’s another thirty minutes before you start to sear meat on the stovetop when you hear the garage door rattle open unexpectedly. Todoroki shouldn’t be home until later this evening, he texted you after you’d been in line for ice cream to tell you as such.

And yet, when the door opens to reveal his familiar frame, you can’t help the way your jaw unhinges.

“You’re home early,” you mention, flipping the steak pieces in the pan to sear the other side. “Everything okay?”

Todoroki is stunned by how grossly domestic the sight of you in his kitchen is and he’s jarred back into his prior lifetime where he had the full family package. He blinks and takes a short breath, forcing himself away from the swirling blackhole of the past to smile at you, “Yes, well. I decided that my daughter’s health was more important than some paperwork. I had a few of the first-years handle it.”

That is how it starts. Your first day as the new nanny of the Todoroki household.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“Are you sure you got the right color plates?”

“Yes.”

“And what about the cake?”

“Ordered it three weeks ago.”

“How about the-”

“Shouto.”

He turns to look you in the eyes, breath frantic, “What?”

You can’t help but laugh at the wide-eyed expression he wears, all of his emotions blatantly displayed on his face. You take a step toward him, reaching out to cup his elbow, “I’ve got it all handled, okay? Her birthday party isn’t for another week, Shouto. Are you ready for the zoo?”

Todoroki hesitates, gritting his teeth together so harshly that you can see the muscles in his jaw quiver. He turns his palm to press flat against your forearm, heterochromatic gaze seeking you out for some sort of comfort, “Did you need me to pack the bag?”

“No,” you chuckle, forcing yourself to remove your body from his grasp by walking back to the sink to finish up the load of dirty dishes you wanted to get into the wash before you left. You tilt your head to look across the bar at him, “We’re leaving in half an hour.”

Hana comes careening down the hallway, a doll in either hand, her pajamas still crooked on her body. She giggles, bouncing on the balls of her feet before launching herself forward to latch around Todoroki’s calf like an animal, “Daddy!”

Shouto bends at the waist to pluck her up, hands careful under her armpits when he tucks her into his side, “Yes, love, I’m going to the zoo. But it looks like you need a change of clothes.”

“I already laid some out on her dresser,” you pipe up from behind the sink, “but you’ll need to spray her down with sunscreen first, it’s not very cloudy outside today.”

As Shouto turns to walk Hana back to her room, you allow your gaze to linger a moment longer than the ordinary. Ever since you first took this job, you could note Todoroki’s beautifully carved body and stellar facial features. He is built perfectly for the type of Pro Hero that he is – thick muscles wrapped around dense bones, and yet still a relatively lean frame to hold it all into place. Shouto’s face is cut sharp at the jawline, cheekbones stark against his skin. You are sure to admire him whenever you can.

When you hear him and his daughter talking, sharing words and laughs, it only adds to the flame that burns in your belly at the thought of Todoroki Shouto.

There is no doubt in your mind that it is improper to feel the way you do about a client. They should be nothing more than a paycheck and a steppingstone, and yet somehow you have found a way to allow Shouto to wind his pristine claws into you. He’s got you by the heart and it has only been a few months.

You force your hands to work at the dishes, cleaning what remains so you can start the dishwasher. After you’re done, you make your way upstairs towards Hana’s room, where you hear various grunting noises.

A laugh threatens to part your lips and give away your spying secret when you notice Shouto frantically trying to pull the shirt you picked out over the top of Hana’s head. Her arms are stuck in the wrong spots and you can already tell that it’s somehow inside out, but none of that pushes you to step forward and take over.

It’s only when Hana spots you spying in the doorway that you’re coerced into treading into her bedroom. She pouts and Todoroki doesn’t look much happier. He chuckles, “I swear I’m better at this than I look.”

“Oh, I know you’re helpless,” you smirk across at him, squatting in front of Hana to help untangle her from the clothes and put her back in right side up. Her little hands grab for your face, squeezing your cheeks as she surges forward to kiss your nose, “Daddy is helpless, isn’t he?”

You are too busy fussing over Hana’s hair to notice the way that Todoroki drinks you in like he has been parched for years. He cannot stop himself from memorizing the color of your irises, the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips.

The reality that he could even be attracted to you is lost on him – he swore after his wife died that he would never find another woman to replace her. You have only been here a few short weeks and he’s already begun to question his earlier statement.

It’s just the way she is with Hana, he tries to convince himself. I am kidding myself into believing she’s here for us, not just because it’s a job.

And yet, when his gaze connects to yours, Hana babbling about lions and tigers as you slather her down with sunscreen, Todoroki swears that he feels something different.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The day of Hana’s party comes quicker than expected.

You’re frantically spinning around, making sure there is enough food and drink for everyone in addition to trying to keep an eye on the children as they play around on the various structures setup outside.

A group of moms gather at the bar, one of them urging the others to look at you with a sinister lilt in their gaze. You continue to serve everyone at the party, filling drinks, bringing new plates of food, and yet their eyes never waver from you.

When you are cleaning up some stray garbage in the kitchen, the blonde woman near the end of the bar perks up, “Excuse me, nanny, would you mind filling my glass?”

It is like the floodgates have opened, and now they are all asking you for favors. You swallow your pride and do as they say whether that’s food or drink or a new napkin or even cleaning up their garbage. They are all gossiping behind their hands, palms raised to their mouths as if that will do anything to staunch the flow of the conversation, or even make it more difficult for you to hear the way they speak of you.

Your pride takes each hit in stride, attempting to roll the insults off your shoulders while you tend to them kindly. It takes Shouto stepping into the kitchen for your face to falter.

You gaze across the room at him and your strong façade falls away, hands shaking by your sides as you look at the floor in shame. You swallow your self-importance and build your walls back to their full height before looking up at him once more.

Todoroki is fuming, to put it nicely.

His hands are curled into fists, knuckles white and cheeks hot at the sight of your unease. He takes a few strides forward, features softening as he reaches out to press his fingertips into the small of your back.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs into the shell of your ear. His breath is warm, spilling down your spine like molten lava, pooling the heat in your belly and turning your insides to mush. The expanse of his palm splays against your back, the plane of his chest flush with your arm when he stands too close.

You take a short breath, unable to get enough oxygen with him crowding your space like this. It is like he’s thinning the air within a few feet of his body, making it difficult to breathe.

“I’m fine,” your voice is high and thick, nostrils flaring when you make eye contact with one of the women at the bar. She is smirking proudly, head tilted so she can look down her nose at you. You swallow the shards of emotion sticking in your throat and look up at Todoroki, confused at the fury held in his irises, darkening them both so they look almost the same color as his pupils.

He turns and you watch in slow motion as his jaw hinges open, anxiety gripping your throat tightly. Your body moves before your mind can catch up; you shift your feet, so your hips are in front of him, hands palming against his pectorals to bring his attention down to you.

You tug on the fabric of his shirt, breathlessly calling to him, “Shouto.”

Todoroki turns his eyes downward, jawline quivering just enough for you to see at this close of an angle. He is intoxicating, the combination of his cologne and his body heat sending your mind spinning. You lick your lips and his eyes track the motion, turning butterflies over in your belly, their gentle wings brushing the insides of your body delicately, enough to tickle.

“Shouto,” you mumble his name again. “S’okay, alright?”

The sound of barstools scraping the floor signifies the judgmental women taking their leave, and your chest deflates at the change in atmosphere. Your hands go slack against Shouto’s chest, head falling forward to rest against his collarbone.

When his hands brush your hips, you snap your eyes upward, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle to meet his gaze. Shouto grinds his teeth together before speaking, “I’m sorry they were bossing you around. You’re not here to take care of them.”

“It’s okay, really,” you pat your hand on his chest as if solidifying your statement, smiling enough to sell it.  

His thumb grazes the hem of your shirt, fingertip slipping beneath the fabric to brush against your skin. Your breath hitches and every instinct within you tells you to push yourself up on your toes and grab his shirt in your tight fists, but when you’re eye-to-eye with him, you wish you wouldn’t have listened.

You can feel his stuttering breath on the bow of your lip, and it makes your shoulders quiver. Your name is whispered between his teeth and suddenly he is too close, so close that you’re intoxicated, and every inhibition of yours has been forgotten like dust in the wind.

“Daddy!”

The sound of her voice breaks you apart, stumbling like teenagers caught underneath the bleachers. Todoroki turns to Hana, tending to her face with a napkin and listening to her sugar-driven babbling. You take the moment to slip past them and back to the outdoor area where everyone is gathered.

For the remainder of the night, you feel Todoroki’s eyes on you, following your movements as you maneuver throughout the guests, offering them refills and to take their garbage. He cannot help but feel the heat incinerating his body from all sides, not just his left. The sensation is strange, the ice on his right side usually taking over any and all feeling he might have.

It feels foreign, but not unpleasant. Todoroki’s neck prickles at the impending awareness that he might be in for a crude awakening soon.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The next few months are a breeze.

Until they are not.

Todoroki has begun to spend more time at work and less at home with each passing day. The threat of his job creeping over him like a looming dark shadow, slowly engulfing him inch by inch until he is surrounded entirely. He spends his days fighting crime, and nights doing paperwork.

You are slowly starting to spend more and more time at the Todoroki house – you are now expected to arrive around five in the morning, and sometimes you do not leave until nine in the evening. It is exhausting, given your drive back to your apartment is a half-hour on a good day with little traffic.

Somehow, you have been able to keep Hana satiated, even without her father around. There are fleeting moments where her cheery expression falters and she sheds a few tears, but you are there to wrap her up in your arms and let her cry until she has nothing left. And then, after she’s dried her face on your shirt, she looks up at you with those beautiful blue eyes and begs you to play princess.

One night, when you are half asleep on the couch with Hana curled into your arms, you feel a palm press to your shoulder, “I’m home.”

You blink blearily, a short jolt of breath stinging your lungs. You swallow and look to the right of you where Todoroki is squatted beside you. He is smiling; you can tell, even in the darkness.

“Hey,” you whisper, careful to cradle Hana’s head as you sit up. “Sorry, it’s been an eventful day.”

Shouto shakes his head and helps you to your feet, palms finding any juncture of you that he can use to support your body. His hand is against your elbow when he speaks next, “No, I’m sorry. I should have been home hours ago. I know you were making dinner.”

“I make dinner every night,” a laugh parts your lips and you run your fingers through Hana’s hair to try and keep her asleep despite the noise. “So, it’s nothing new, Todoroki. Let me go put her down and I’ll head out.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but his jaw snaps shut before he can let out whatever secret he is harboring. You disregard it, walking upstairs to tuck Hana in for bed. She stirs but does not wake entirely and you are thankful. The day has already been tumultuous enough without having to sing her back to sleep or stay up any longer.

As you are walking down the steps, you’re surprised to find Shouto pacing in the hallway, his thumb pinching his chin and his brow furrowed harshly. He looks rather intensely conflicted, and there is a moment where you’re worried, he may decide to fire you. Could you have done something wrong with Hana? Did she not like you? Was he upset that you let her have chocolate before noon the other day?

“Shouto?” you call, padding forward, toes sifting through the carpet. “Is everything okay?”

Another yawn splits your lips and you cover it with your palm, apologizing through your teeth. He shakes his head and steps toward you with a palm outstretched, “Yes, everything is fine. I just have something I’d like to ask you.”

You tilt your head and it reminds him of a curious animal, sniffing him out for food in the form of information. Your hand rests on his bicep and it is dizzying to be this close to you, even after several months of working alongside you. His head still spins when you are too close.

“I was wondering if you might consider moving in.”

You blink dumbly, mouth parted so he can see the pad of your tongue and the tips of your canine teeth. Your fingertips graze against his arm and you feel like lightning is sparking at the cusp of your touch.

The reality is this is not far from normal – most full-time nannies do end up living with their families. It makes everything easier and cheaper. If you live there, he does not have to pay you for drive time, and your boarding costs can be directly deducted from your standard paycheck. This option is what makes the most sense, but you are not focused on sense right now.

All you can see is his bare torso.

You are imagining accidentally walking in on him after he’s taken a shower, or him stumbling in after his morning runs with his tiny running shorts and shirtless upper half. Your tongue goes dry at the thought of it all, but you force yourself to push words past your lips, so you won’t look like a dead fish.

“That’s a pretty permanent decision, Shouto.” Your words hold weight and he knows it, he’s thought this through a dozen different ways to Sunday. You swallow and when your hands brush over his skin, he swears sparks light beneath your fingertips; it makes his arm numb. “I don’t mind, but I just want to make sure that you’ve really thought this through.”

He nods, stepping closer so he’s almost flush with you now, “I feel awful having you drive so early and so late. Your hours would not change, your responsibilities wouldn’t change. You would have your own room and privacy, and I don’t expect to lessen your pay just because you live here. It’s just-”

“Shouto,” you’re laughing now, shaking your head as you look down at your toes, “I don’t expect everything to stay the same if I move in. I’m prepared, are you?”

Truly, he’s thought about that question far too much in the passing days when he sees you around the house or speaks with you on the phone during the day. The idea that you will be here every hour of every day is suffocating, but in a way that makes him want to drown. As time moves faster, Shouto realizes that you have become a second nature in his house. He is thinking of you during his office meetings and the late nights on patrol.

He cannot be honest with the true reason he is asking you to move in, because then he would have to face his emotions and he’s not ready for that yet. And yet, his body betrays his mind as he reaches forward to brush his thumb over your cheek, “I think I can handle it.”

Emotion swells like a blooming heat between the two of you, your bodies almost entirely pressed up against one another as your voices grow softer. You are not sure if it’s the sleep-muddled brain you’re working off of, but you swear that you see his eyes drop to your lips. There is some part of you that wants to fall into him, to let him take you and burn you and leave you for dead, but the rest of you is working off of sense and logic and you know that would never work.

“Well,” your voice shatters the fragile moment, “I guess I better get home and start packing.”

Shouto releases you and something shifts in his irises, but it is gone as soon as it appears, and you don’t have enough time to discern the emotion. You pluck up your bag and slip on your shoes, turning to wave at him over your shoulder as you step past the threshold and back to the garage.

As you start your car, you rest your forehead on the steering wheel before you pull out, and murmur to yourself in utter chagrin, “What have I just agreed to?”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“I’m telling you - Red Riot is going to give you a run for your money.”

“That blockhead?” Shouto chuckles, swirling his glass, “I doubt it.”

You tilt your head, “And what about Ground Zero? He’s got his own agency now, doesn’t he?”

Shouto rolls his eyes, “God, can we please leave Bakugou out of this conversation?”

Another swig of the rum and coke slides down your throat, burning in the best way. Your head feels hazy, but you don’t mind, taking advantage of Hana’s early bedtime for the first time in a few weeks. You push your mostly empty glass towards him, “Bartender?”

Todoroki smiles, tipping the bottle downward to refill your glass. You grab the soda off the countertop and fill it to the brim, swirling the mixture with your straw. Another gulp of the liquid has you asking, “You and the other big players all went to Yuuei together, right? Ground Zero, Deku, Red Riot?”

Shouto nods, “Yes, we did.”

“Wow, to have gone to Yuuei,” you whisper in wonder, eyes heavy as you look down into the dark liquid fizzing in your glass.

He leans forward on the counter, body close to you as he asks his obvious question, “You don’t have a quirk, do you?”

“No,” your answer is quick, curt. You swallow thickly, shards of shame sticking in your throat. “I was born without one. You’ve seen my shoes.”

You are referring to the wider shoes that those with no quirk have to wear thanks to the extra joint in their pinkie toes. You lift your foot up in the air for good measure, painted toenails catching the light just right as you wriggle your toes around dramatically. You sigh, “I didn’t fully know who you were when I took this job. It’s kind of embarrassing that I don’t have a quirk, and you’re some superhero saving people with ice and fire.”

Shouto holds out his left palm, face up, and ignites a small flame, “I hated this side of my body for so long. It comes with a burden I’m glad you do not have to bear.”

The weight in his voice entices your eyes upward, connecting with his gaze as the heat blossoms, sucking the oxygen out of the air. Shouto curls his fingers inward and cuts the flame short, a gentle wisp of smoke floating from his palm.

“What does it feel like?” you find yourself asking, the alcohol creating a dull buzz behind your eyes that latches onto all of your inhibitions and immediately tosses them away.

His breath hitches audibly, pupils dilating as he attempts to focus on something other than the way your lips bow when you speak. Shouto steps forward, hands gentle as he cups your cheeks, a bravery he did not know he could muster bolstering his movements. His fingertips tickle your skin and it’s difficult for you to keep your eyes open when he is holding you so tenderly.

Shouto closes his eyes in concentration, taking a deep breath before narrowing his concentration onto the pores of his hands. His palms are flush with your skin and you let your mind wander while he is working up his quirk.

How would his touch compare to different parts of your body?

Your eyes slip shut at the thought, biting your lip as your mind runs rampant. The heat curling in your belly reminds you of his quirk – burning and licking at your belly like a raging flame. You only wish you had his right side to cool you down from the inside out.

Slowly but surely, you feel the right side of your face grow warm while the left side has started to chill. Your eyes go wide, and you circle your fingers around his wrists, voice breathy when you speak, “Wow, Shouto, that’s amazing!”

Your voice goes quiet and it is like the world stops spinning when he opens his eyelids to look down at you. You feel frozen in your spot, but you know it isn’t his quirk affecting you. Your grip tightens but he doesn’t seem to notice, his eyesight directed to your lips, zeroed in on the way that you gnaw at them when you’re nervous.

The tension is like a rubber band begging to snap. You feel the coil twirl around your spine, bunching you together and screaming at you to run away. There are a thousand different reasons why getting too close is dangerous, but your wanton body cannot be bothered to list them. Instead you are pushing yourself up in your seat, so your back is arched toward him, chest brushing his pectorals.

Shouto reminds you of something innocent when his mouth parts and irises glimmer beneath half-hooded lids. You feel distinctly profligate for envisaging his mouth on other parts of your body, the pink of his tongue peeking from behind pearly teeth doing little to quell your thoughts. You swallow thickly and shudder as his hand that produces cold shifts into your hair, rustling through the tresses at the nape of your neck.

Your hands are suddenly wrapped up in the fabric of his shirt, fisting the soft material, and you are pulling him towards you. Even so, it is Shouto who tilts your head upward, heels of his palms gently angling you by the cheeks.

The two of you take a breath before devouring one another whole.

His mouth tastes like whiskey, sharp and biting, but his tongue is in stark contrast to the flavor. He is gentle while still taking over your every sense. His tongue maps out the curves of your teeth and the pad of your tongue while his chilled palm keeps your skin from searing with blush.

The tenderness with which he holds onto you makes your heart rattle around within the cage you have built just for him. You knew this entire time that if he were to wriggle his way in, to touch your heart in just the right spot, you would crumble beneath his ministrations. This entire time you’ve been beholden to him, despite the utter denial you’ve been bathing in to hide the confession.

“Todoroki, I-”

Your voice is cut off by a blazing hand drifting beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dipping against your spine, “I hate it when you call me that.”

Your eyes go wide but he’s enraptured you with another kiss square on the lips. Your words fall into the confines of his throat, never to be heard again as he swallows them into silence.

Hands are everywhere, so much so that you can’t tell where you begin and he ends.

Shouto nips your lip and you gasp, your hips canting forward of their own accord. Your mouth is gaping, begging for air, and he gives in to your silent request, drifting his lips downward to your jawline. He mutters a string of curse words as your hands finally make their way to his hair and shoulders, digging into him like he might float away.

He hums against your collarbone, teeth bared as he licks and nips at your skin. The alcohol in your bloodstream mixed with his essence in your veins only spins your mind into overdrive, dizzying you to the point that your eyes cross. You whine as he bites kisses into your skin, fingernails dug sharply into the skin of his back through his shirt. There will most likely be little crescent moon imprints when you release.

The trail of his kisses loops back up the column of your throat, teeth grazing your jaw as he works his way to your mouth again. You whine into his lips when his frozen fingers stroke your bare skin beneath your top, “Shouto, please-”

Todoroki’s confidence grows when he hears you moan his name into the air, begging him with only a few syllables. He disconnects his mouth from yours to look you in the eyes, “God, you’re so damn pretty, y’know?”

Your mouth hangs open and Todoroki must hold himself back from slipping his thumb between your parted, full lips. A shuddering breath passes between the two of you, time frozen as the moment sits still. It allows the both of you to agonize over one another, taking in each and every wanton feature as you beg quietly.

“So pretty,” he whispers before digging his hands into your backside and tugging you forward so you wrap yourself around him. His mouth is on you in a flash, all teeth and tongue pulling and prodding at you in a divine way you’re sure only he has mastered.

You are enraptured by him, fully captivated with his dual-ended quirk sending your body into a haze. Your mind is bewildered, thrown into a twirl of rum and Todoroki. If he were to give you a moment to catch your breath, you might be able to find it within your resolve to push him off you, to tell him how wrong this is. And yet, with his tongue tangled in your teeth, you can’t force the word no out of your throat.

Instead it is just his name.

Todoroki picks you up to deposit you on the countertop, thumbs digging into your hips to help you settle. His fingers make quick work of your top, slipping beneath them hem to graze over the swell of your breast on the underside. You whimper at the ghost of his touch, trying to angle your arms so you can tug at the band of his sweats.

When he realizes what you are fumbling with, he uses the bottoms of his feet to tug his pants down to his ankles. He steps out of them, but you can’t focus on anything other than the prominent bulge strained against his dark briefs. You have to swallow the drool accumulating in the center of your mouth, threatening to pool over the corners of your lips if you were to speak.

Before he tugs your shirt over your head, he looks into your eyes, sincerity cutting through the lust clouding his irises, “Last chance.”

He is giving you an out. One last clear path to purity.

You hesitate for a moment and his hands curl tighter around the hem of your top, restraining himself from ripping it away like an animal. His jaw is quivering as he waits on your response, nostrils flaring when you do not answer right away.

Whether it is the alcohol or the need talking, you are the conduit for the words spoken next, “Fuck me, Shouto. Now.”

Your shirt is yanked over your head unceremoniously, but you don’t care. Your eyes are wandering, begging for him to be nearly as naked as you. You don’t have to ask, because he’s already stepping away from you to remove the offensive piece of clothing, baring his body to you.

You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, especially upon moving into the Todoroki residence. He goes on shirtless jogs and sometimes does not wear anything on his torso for a while after he’s showered. There are days he has hardly anything remaining of his costume, after a particularly rough villain or training session.

And yet, this time it feels different.

He is baring himself for you. The intimacy of the moment does little to dull the ache in your mind, the strain of your heart in your ribs. You know that if he were to show you much more openness, you may have bruises beneath your skin from the way your heart threatens to beat at such a quick, tumultuous pace.

Shouto wastes little time in lurching forward to palm at your breasts, mouth too busy with your lips to pay attention to much else. You hitch your thigh between his hips, the curve of your leg brushing into his clothed cock. He grunts into the trap of your teeth, brow tugged with focus as he ruts his hips upward into you. You’re sure to put pressure back against him, the tip of his cock bulging on your thigh.

“Sho’,” you whimper when his mouth drifts from your lips to your neck. Your hands find his hair and his shoulder, eyelids fluttering halfway closed while he licks and nips at your thin, sensitive skin. Your throat burns, flesh aching as he starts to bite into you, rolling the skin between his teeth slowly, agonizing your very core.

A fresh wave of arousal coats the inside of your walls, and you know it is stained your panties, but you don’t have enough dignity to care. All that is on your mind is how he can take you on the countertop, and if you’ll be able to keep quiet enough not to wake the sleeping girl up the flight of stairs.

“Shit,” he’s cursing when your hand finds his bulge, “sweetheart, I-”

His breath is stuttered over your collarbone as you begin to palm him through his briefs. The nickname tumbling from his lips in a moan turns your stomach, effervescent champagne bubbles drifting up from your belly until they are suffocating your lungs. You gasp to relieve yourself of the pent-up anticipation as his left hand reaches the button of your shorts.

Shouto is careful as he unbuttons your pants, slipping the coarse fabric of your jeans down your thighs. As he squats down to help you out of them, all you can think of is what might happen if you were to grab him by the hair and force his mouth to your cunt.

Almost like he was reading your mind, he leans forward after he’s tossed your jeans to the other side of the kitchen floor and his mouth ghosts over your core. Your lower lip wobbles and you must bite your tongue to keep your mewling cries from tumbling out in excess. Todoroki kisses the top of your thigh, nose nudging over the edge of your lace underwear, his eyes closed so you cannot make out the expression settled in his ordinarily stoic irises.

“If you smell this good, I can only imagine how wonderful you taste,” Todoroki smirks against your skin, tilting his head so he can look up at you from his crouched position.

Your hips cant forward at the sentence, pussy already dripping just from the timbre of his deep voice. The vibrations of his word are like shockwaves straight to your core and you want to beg him to give you something, even a teasing lick over the center of your underwear.

Shouto kisses the little bow at the center of your panties, smiling as he snags the accent between the bite of his teeth and uses it to tug your underwear down your thighs. Your muscles tense, his ministrations slow and tantalizing. He chuckles and the sound shoots through your bones as if they were hollow like a feather, the warm honey of his laughter seeping slowly into your every pore and breaking down what remains of your resolve.

You have to cover your mouth with your hands when you yelp at the pad of his thumb brushing back the hood of your clit. His cool palm finds your thigh, just below the curve of your ass, and he stabilizes you with a firm grip, “Sit still, Princess.”

The authoritative tone of his voice turns your spine rigid, eyes facing the wall as he butterflies your pussy so he can see the silvery strands of slick built up between your layers of skin. He licks his lips and you feel the threatening heat of his tongue near your clit and you’re squirming. You are white knuckling the countertop, jaw under immense pressure as you clamp your teeth harshly.

He does not give you warning before delving his tongue between your folds, licking up your accumulated slick with one slow movement. His glittering grey iris tries to find your face, but the only thing he can make out is the line of your jaw and chin as your head is thrown back. Shouto chuckles before starting to explore the glutenous walls of your cunt with his tongue, his one hand still pressed into your thigh, fingers digging so hard that you are sure there will be bruises tomorrow morning.

Your body responds to him quickly, hips canting forward to buck against his mouth, begging for something more than just the quick slithering of his tongue in and out of you. In retaliation, Shouto presses his tongue flat, creating the illusion that it is thicker than before. You keen when he turns the pad of his thumb near your clit, close but not near enough.

“Sho’, please,” you pant, sweat beginning to bead up on your temples from the anticipation alone.

His cocky smirk is something you can sense when he speaks, but even further, you can feel it as he continues to lavish your pussy with his tongue. He huffs before standing to his feet, your slick mixed with his saliva giving his mouth a dangerous glint in the lowlight of the kitchen.

Shouto licks his lips as he steps closer to you again, bodies flush with one another. The hand that you know could burn you in an instant drifts down your side towards your pussy and you feel every muscle in your body clench at the thought of what kind of damage he could do to you if he tried.

Oh, and you’d let him.

You are about to beg him again, wanton moans vibrating your throat, but he intercepts you before you can lower your inhibitions any further. Shouto’s elongated middle finger slips just between your folds, using his saliva and your slick to lubricate his digit as he begins to pump up into you.

Todoroki Shouto is by no means a small man.

However, he is not so muscular that it looks like he is uncomfortable whenever he is walking. He is lean but built, which means that even though his hands are thick with muscle, they are not painful when pressed into your tight heat. Rather, they are snug and comfortable, his knuckle providing a pleasure you’ve not experienced before.

The tip of his finger brushes the spongy spot at the base of your core, and you swear you feel him in your spine. Shouto leans forward kiss you and you receive him quickly, desperate for some sort of tactile relief. He’s grinning into your lips, but you do not care so long as you find some reprieve from the coil beginning to twist within your stomach.

“So fuckin’ tight,” Todoroki whispers into your teeth as his tongue licks against your gums.

At his comment, you clench your cunt around his fingers, tightening your hold only to see how he will react. His hand stills for a moment, but then he is pushing another finger to accompany the first, splitting your cunt open despite the vice-like grip you have on his knuckle. He pumps until the base of his digits are finding the heat of your pussy, his fingerprints searing into your walls as you attempt to stay clamped around him.

Your legs begin to shake from the way you are holding yourself up on your toes, knees bent so you can be closer to his body. Todoroki feels the tremors in your thighs as his hand roams the dense muscle, whispering, “C’mere, love,” and then he’s picking you up gingerly.

Shouto hooks one of your legs around his waist at the knee, arching your back so your cunt is still butterflied open for him. Your other leg dangles from the countertop as he balances you on the edge.

The way his fingers work into you is nothing short of sinful, that white-hot flash of pleasure sinking into your eyelids slowly but surely. You begin to lose your peripheral vision as the impending ecstasy begins to settle in. The crest of the wave is close, his knuckles dragging salaciously against the innermost part of you.

Your jaw hangs open the closer you are to coming undone, panting breaths prying your lips apart. You feel utterly exposed in front of him like this, lewdly strewn against the counter that you were sipping rum and whiskey against not even a half hour ago. And yet, somehow, Shouto’s hand cradled against your shoulders is all you need to bring your self-consciousness down to a manageable level.

From this angle, you can reach down and pull Shouto’s briefs down so his cock can spring free. You’re palming at him as soon as you see the dark red of his cockhead. He stutter-steps forward when you pump him the first time, eyes close to bulging from their sockets at the sensation.

You twist his cock in your palm, running your thumb against the pearlescent bead of pre-come collected at the curve of his slit. Using what you can of the liquid, you drag your damp thumb down the length of his cock for slight lubrication. Shouto bucks into your hand when you bob your palm up and down to connect with the base of his pubic bone.

Now that you’re secure on the countertop, Shouto allows his free hand to wander around the curvatures of your body, mapping out the dips and contours of your frame. His hand is on your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, when your mouth drops open from a particularly pleasurable swipe of his fingers. Your cunt is dripping, and you’re honestly not sure if it even matters if you come, he should be able to slip right between your tight heat with ease.

“S’pretty,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek as his thumb brushes the bow of your bottom lip.

On instinct, your tongue laps towards the digit, silently begging for him to do more.

Shouto listens, dipping his thumb into your mouth, pressing the pad of his finger into the thick muscle of your tongue. You lick and suck at him, rolling your mouth to match the pace of your hand as you work his hard cock towards release. Shouto fixes the rhythm of his fingers so every part of your bodies are going at the same speed.

The collective sensations of his hands and mouth are too much and you cry out, digging your free hand into his shoulder to attempt and ground yourself. You pant, looking up at him with bejeweled irises, tears sitting dormant on your lashes as a whine sits pretty on your lips.

“What is it?” he asks, borderline patronizing. “Are you gonna come on my fingers?”

Your lower lip trembles and you feel yourself slipping into some subservient headspace at the tone in his voice. You nod, rolling your hips to meet him as he slows his hand, “P-Please, Shouto, I-”

“I want you to come,” he murmurs into your ear, leaning forward so his breath is hot on your skin. The hand he has buried in your cunt begins to heat and the searing sensation sends your mind reeling. Shouto nudges his nose along your jawline, warmth creeping along the base of his palm, “C’mon, love, I want to see you come. Make a pretty little face for me, yeah?”

His words do little to quell the growing ache between your thighs, the pent-up need begging to be released. You clench around him again, not forgetting his cock between your hand. You continue to twist your wrist, flicking your fingers along the length of his dick, dragging with just enough pressure to make his eyes cross. Teasing the head, you drag the pad of your thumb over it, catching another swell of pre-come and trailing the liquid down the thick shaft.

You whimper his name, squeezing your eyes closed so harshly that the corners of your lids crinkle. Your sounds only grow louder when his mouth begins to suck at your nipple, massaging your breast in his chilled hand. The crystallization of ice draws your attention, a frozen cold so intense that it almost feels hot in its own unique way.

There is a stinging excitement at the duality of the temperatures that grow further apart the longer he activates his quirk. Your nipples pebble while your pussy floods from the heat, copious amounts of slick trickling down his fingers to pool in the creases of his palm. Shouto murmurs obscenities against your earlobe but you’re in such a realm of fevered phrenzy that you can’t make out he’s even speaking English.

“Sh-Shouto, I-I’m close,” you manage, feeling the way his cock throbs beneath your touch helping to bring you back to the cusp of reality. You dive deep again when his fingertips brush against your cervix, allowing his passion to force you beneath the surface.

His thumb is circling your clit as he murmurs, “C’mon, darling, I know you can do it. Come for me, yeah?”

It’s as if his words united with his caress are enough to shove you head-first into the pool of desire. You are whimpering, cunt fluttering around his fingers as your come drips down the crevices of his palm. Your release reaches his wrist, milky liquid tickling his skin.

“Atta girl,” he kisses your cheek, fingers stilling for a moment to allow you to collect yourself. You continue to ride out your high by bucking your hips over his knuckles, slippery fingers easily providing you the rest of the comfort you need to come down from your high.

“Your turn.”

You’re pushing your way off the countertop when the creaking of the stairs makes your heart still within your chest.

Shouto’s stare flickers from you to the staircase, jaw hung open as he analyzes the sound. When another step echoes in the hallway, he’s quick to yank his briefs and sweats back over his hips. He helps you into your shorts, the silvery strands of your release forgotten as he tugs the fabric up your hips.

You’ve just gotten your pants buttoned when Hana’s teetering figure creates a shadow on the kitchen floor.

“Daddy?” she whimpers, fists digging into her tear-filled eyes.

Shouto swipes his hands against his sweats before crouching in front of her. His palms find her sides quickly, thumbs grazing her rib cage in an attempt at comfort, “Hey, love,” the sound of the nickname makes something stir within your belly, “what’re you doing awake?”

Hana swallows a hiccup, “I-I had a bad dream.”

You step forward, pressing your hand to Shouto’s shoulder, offering a gentle nudge of comfort. Hana blinks up at you, jeweled irises focused on your face, “M-Momma?”

The title holds a weight you had not prepared to carry.

She’s all but forgotten Todoroki, pushing past him to barrel into your shin, wrapping her stubby arms around your knee. She wipes her face against the skin of your thigh, sniffling louder as a fresh wave of tears takes over her body. Her shoulders shudder and you don’t have time to wonder whether she’s cognizant enough to realize that she’s just called you her mother.

You scoop her up in your arms, holding her gingerly by the back and head, and she wraps her legs around your midsection to anchor her little body to your torso like a frightened animal. Hana buries her head into your neck, tears sticking to your skin and creating an unbearable heat.

“You’re not leaving, right?” Hana whimpers, “I-I had a dream that you left.”

In an effort to comfort her, you run your fingers through her hair, gently separating the strands so your nails can scratch her scalp. You kiss her temple, “Of course not, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me.”

She retracts from your neck and a rush of cool air washes over you. Her irises are swallowed by her pupils, thick droplets of tears wetting her cheeks. You smile, forcing yourself to forget the way you were just about to jump her father’s bones, and brush your nose against hers in an eskimo kiss.

“It was just a dream, babe,” you comfort her, making sure you are looking at her directly when you say it so she feels much more solid in the reality that you are here to stay. A soothing hand reaches forward to couple with yours, thumb tracing the bump of her shoulder.

Todoroki kisses the back of her head, “Hana, there’s no need to worry, love.”

“I already lost one mommy,” Hana sounds ancient when she speaks, voice far away and intelligent beyond her young years, “I don’t wanna lose another one.”

Your voice is lodged in your throat now, tears of your own pressing threateningly against the back of your eyes. You try to swallow but the shards of your heart are blocking your windpipe, cutting off your oxygen. Todoroki slips his hands beneath Hana’s armpits, separating her from you so he can cradle her body against his chest, “You’re not losing anyone, sweetheart. Let’s get you back to bed.”

You take this as your cue to leave, grabbing your things as Todoroki takes Hana back up the stairs to her bedroom.

A sense akin to despair settles in your chest, restraining your heart in such a way that makes it difficult to breathe. The world seems to settle atop your shoulders and in the next moments you have turned into Atlas, forced to hold the earth up by your careless grip. Tears settle in your lids as you pull away from the Todoroki residence.

Something tells you that things will never be the same.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

As much as you hate it, that little voice eating away at the back of your mind was right.

The looming reality that Todoroki is avoiding you does little to satisfy the curiosity settled in your bones, affecting you down to the marrow.

Ever since that night, he hardly looks you in the eye.

In fact, he’s barely even around to see you at all.

Todoroki leaves for work before you can emerge from the bathroom with Hana in tow, fresh from a bubble bath and ready for breakfast. He slips back through the doors late at night, normally after eight, so Hana is either passed out with you on the couch or curled up beneath her covers in her bedroom. There is not another time where he touches you gingerly on the shoulder and guides you back to bed, not anymore.

You have wondered many times if you should approach him, beg him for some sort of explanation. Not only is his distance affecting you, but it’s turning Hana into a child you hardly recognize. She is still cheerful a majority of the time, begging you to play princesses and watch Bubble Guppies. But there are times when she turns angry, ripping the heads off her dolls and trying to sabotage Todoroki’s work clothes by drawing on his shoes or dropping her glass of morning milk on his suit jacket.

You start to cook his meals the day before, packaging them up in a Tupperware container that’s always gone when you check at breakfast the next morning. You are not a blind woman, and you normally choose to indulge his silly game of hide and seek instead of confronting him about what happened that night.

However, tonight, you’ve had enough.

Even though he’s decided to spend the weekend at home for the first time in a few weeks, you’ve never felt more on edge. Hana is extremely irritable, nightmares plaguing her mind during the time she’s supposed to be sleeping, and it would seem there is nothing you can ever do to satiate her throughout the day.

Playing princess is boring, coloring is stressful, blowing bubbles is stupid.

You are reaching the end of your rope and Shouto’s evasive presence does little to satiate your temperamental moods. You clutch at the cusp of sanity, praying that it will not leave you just yet; the only thing holding your tongue back from lashing out is the sliver of discretion that you’ve managed to sustain in spite of the day’s events.

“Hey, uh-” Todoroki’s voice is strained as he stands in the archway of the kitchen, “Would you mind making us a couple of sandwiches? I think Hana is getting hungry.”

The warmth from the dishwater gives you something other than his irises to focus on, your eyesight directed downward, “Sure. What would you like?”

“Let’s just do peanut butter and jelly,” Shouto shrugs nonchalantly. “Grape, if we have it.”

Your ears perk up at the mention of a specific flavor. You are certain that if you were to look into the refrigerator that you would not find grape jelly, but it’s obvious that Shouto is otherwise unknowing.

“Grape?” you echo, pulling your hands from the dishwater to wipe them on your hand towel. “You think that’s a smart choice?”

Shouto scoffs and it stings so much that you turn your head away from him, eyes now focused on the floor beneath your feet, “Yes, I’m sure. Why does it matter anyway?”

“Oh, no reason.” You pluck a jar of strawberry jelly from the refrigerator and begin to prepare the countertop for your sandwich making.

He takes a step forward to protest, but you’re waving the knife in his direction before he can stride across the tile, “You listen to me, Todoroki. And you listen good.”

Shouto pauses, throat bobbing as his line of sight zeroes in on your lips. His eyes widen, pupils swallowing his irises in fear. The knife wavering in your grasp holds much more weight than any other butter knife he’s come into contact with.

“We don’t have any grape jelly because your daughter is allergic to grapes.”

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the butter knife in your hand, “And if you were ever here you might notice a thing or two, such as an allergy to something that could, I dunno, kill her?!”

The sound of your voice raising an octave or two reverberates off of the walls and thrums at Shouto’s heartstrings. He swallows thickly, but you’re not done tearing into him just yet.

“This little charade you’ve got going on has got to end.” Your voice is desperate, unhinged, and you feel the honesty scrape against the front of your throat, “Your daughter is turning into someone you can barely recognize, and you’re not far behind her.”

Silence envelopes the room, and the only thing you’re able to hear is your heart beating frantically in your own ears. As your pulse thuds rapidly, rushing like a river of thick emotion throughout your body, you feel your palms begin to sweat. The longer you keep quiet, the louder the sound grows.

Finally, after giving him a few minutes to respond, you press the tops of your fists into your hips, glaring down your nose at him, “If you want me gone, all you had to do was ask. I thought we respected one another enough for that.”

You slap together two sandwiches quickly, tossing the plates onto the counter for him to pick up on his own before you turn and walk from the room. You’re unable to look at him any longer, not sure if it’s the loitering reality that you may have to move on from this chapter of your life or the loss of a generous paycheck and living situation that wraps your heart like the talons of a bird, squeezing until you can’t breathe.

The tumultuous roll of emotions scrapes away at your chest, and you’re surprised that there isn’t blood gushing from your ribs. You lean back against your closed door, head tilted backward to stave off the tears, saltine droplets coating your lashes as they sit in your ducts, pending the gentle sway of your neck to drip down your cheeks.

You aren’t sure how long you stay this way, crumbled against your door with the heat of disappointment building smoke in your lungs. It’s difficult to breathe, a dizziness taking over your mind that you’ve never felt quite so acutely before. You cradle your head in your hands, massaging your temples with your thumbs to try and mitigate the oncoming migraine.

A knock sounds at your door and you jump, hand pressed over your frantic heart, “Y-Yes?”

“Can-Can I come in?”

Shouto.

The sound of his voice does little to staunch the metaphorical puncture wound in your chest. You flex your hands before standing to your feet and opening the door, allowing him to step over the threshold into your room.

“Listen, I think there’s just-”

“No,” you interrupt, a short breath filling your lungs, “I’m going first.”

Todoroki’s eyes dilate, his feet stuttering backward as he takes in your assertive sentence. He grits his teeth, jaw quivering under the stress, but keeps his lips sealed in spite of desperately wanting to speak out.

“If you don’t want me here, you could have just said so.” You wring your hands together, knuckles knocking against one another as you twist your fingers. You close your eyelids and inhale a deep breath, “What happened, u-us kissing, wasn’t professional, and I apologize. But what you’re doing to Hana?”

You flare your nostrils as your hands turn to fists at your side. Todoroki watches you closely, eyes never wavering from your frame as he takes in your quivering, quiet fury. Your jaw muscles tense and you force your eyes to meet his, despite the glossiness settled in them, “You’re never here, Shouto. You missed her ballet recital last week, then you forgot she was allergic to grapes, and now you’re not seeing what’s directly in front of you!”

The more you speak, the louder you become. You can feel your cheeks heating, the tears building up in your eyelids with every syllable. Your fists clench at your sides, and your fingernails dig irately into your palms, so harshly that you swear you might draw blood. Each word draws out an anger in you that you didn’t realize you were harboring, like a fugitive sitting in the cage of your chest, tugging on the bars of your heart as they beg to be broken free.

“Hana deserves better than this, and you know it, Todoroki. So if you don’t get your head out of your ass,” your lower lip wobbles and you reach forward to poke him directly in the chest, index finger dug into the space between his pectorals, “you’re going to lose your daughter.”

You’re shaking your head and your fist as the next sentence comes tumbling from your lips, heart strings fully wound as you speak, “Listen, I don’t know what your problem is, but if it’s me, then I’ll leave.”

Shouto’s brow furrows as he looks down his nose at you, “Are you finished?”

The deadpan of his voice stirs something in your belly, something like an acrid fire that plumes in your chest, the smoke of it all curling around your throat and begging to be spewed like acid from your tongue. Your teeth grind into each other, a creaking sound echoing in your own ears. The way your heart twists in your chest makes it difficult to breathe, but you manage.

“Fuck you, Todoroki.”

You go to turn away from him, your hand falling from his chest, when he snatches you by the wrist, repeating his question, “Are you finished?”

A small remaining sliver of your patience sits heavy on your chest, forcing you to nod your head. Regardless of how you feel about him, Todoroki Shouto is an important man, and you need to leave here a dignified woman. If you make a scene, if you flash your fists and bare your teeth, it’s possible you won’t have another job ever again.

“I don’t want you to quit,” his voice is breathless, an octave higher than normal; he almost sounds sick, “but there is a problem.”

The anticipation of what he might say next brings back that acidic wash in your belly, throat squeezed shut by the clamped hands of insecurity and doubt. Shouto takes a careful step forward, mindful of your personal space as he does so. His fingers never leave your wrist, circled around your arm even as it’s pulled away from his body.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

To say that the world stopped spinning was an understatement.

You feel the whole planet turn on its axis, your body undergoing vertigo as the metaphorical rug is yanked out from beneath your feet. Your stomach flips, the acid molting into lava, hot and sticky as it licks up against your skin, pooling just below your navel. His grip is too restrictive, and you can tell your body is beginning to shift into panic mode.

“You’re right,” he barges in on your internal monologue of self-hatred, eyes boring into your soul, “I’ve been a shitty father, which is painful for me to admit. But it’s the truth.”

The conviction in his voice is solid, and you know that he is being authentic. Todoroki has a clouded past when it comes to his father, Enji. You are aware of the influence his estranged parents have on his relationship with his child, which is one of the reasons his distance has troubled you. Every time he has had enough vulnerability to allow you to peek into the glass panes of his soul, he’s shown you the scars that Endeavor has left on him.

Todoroki uses his free hand to cup your cheek, thumb under your chin to pull your attention back to him, “I tried to distance myself from you to get a better grasp on the way I was feeling.”

His palm grazes down the column of your throat, his eyes careful not to stray to close to your lips or else he’ll get distracted. Your mouth bobs open but you have nothing to say, and the bewildered expression on your face makes him laugh. The sound of his baritone chuckle does little to quell the storm raging beneath your skin, lighting striking with every single touch of his fingers and thunder booming in your chest at the sound of his voice.

“For the longest time, I believed I would never love anyone again after my wife passed away.” The feel of his knuckles slipping between yours, palm searing into you despite it being his right side. At the mention of his wife, your whole being begins to shudder, the weight of expectations and self-doubt pressing into your chest like a mass you cannot remove.

Todoroki swallows the lump in his throat, neck bobbing, “I was content with it just being Hana and I for the rest of our lives, us against the world, until you came along. You fit so perfectly into our family, sliding in seamlessly as if you’d been here the whole time. You managed to win Hana over in a day and now she can’t stop talking about you. And then, when Hana called you mom, it threw me.”

Shouto’s eyes are intense as they stare into you, narrowed and attentive. The odd combination of one blue, one grey, is hard to grasp, unsure of where you should look specifically. His fingers against your neck card through your hair, keeping you anchored to him and this world.

“It was easier for me to dive into work because I knew I’d have you here to pick up the pieces,” Shouto admits, his gaze finally breaking away from your face to narrow focus to his sock-clad feet. “I was so weak for you that I couldn’t bear it. And then you and Hana both suffered for my cowardice.”

A wave of destiny washes over you, looming like a shadow, begging you to make a decision.

“Todoroki, this is-”

“I told you,” his thumb grazes your cheekbone, “not to call me that.”

Your jaw hangs open and tears cloud your vision, and you want to smile no matter how hard your body fights against you. Your lower lip quivers and you shake your head, saltine droplets lingering on your cheeks, “I-I can’t, Shouto. I’m not right for you and Hana, I’m not-oh.”

His mouth slots against yours, angled perfectly to capture your lips in a gentle kiss. Shouto’s hands are on your face, holding you in place so you can’t run from him, despite how every cell under your skin is screaming to bolt from your place.

As he parts from you, you’re left in a daze of euphoria, eyes half-lidded, mouth still pursed as you chase after him, pleading for more.

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip before retreating to trace your jawline.

And you know that you can’t; your body has already betrayed your words with the simple action of a kiss. Your hands follow suit, wrapped around the fabric of his shirt to keep him close, frightened he might leave you all over again.

Shouto’s hands drift down your abdomen, slow against your rib cage as if he were counting each bone to make sure they were all there, safe and sound. He kisses your forehead and then your nose, mouth hovering over the bow of your lips, eyes begging you even though his voice is caught in his lungs.

You say a stupid thing then, just something meant to break up the quiet, but with the floaty tone of your voice it breeds for much more wicked thoughts.

“Your lips are really warm.”

Shouto laughs before devouring you at the seam of your mouth, leaning forward to scoop you up in his arms, hands dug in at your thighs. You squeal against his lips, wrapping your legs around his waist, your fingers dipping into the muscle of his shoulders for an anchor.

He’s got you back against the bed before you can breathe again, leaning back on his thighs so he can pull his shirt over his head with ease. Your palms are like magnets to his abdomen, fingerprints finding each curve and dip of his muscle, praying you can map it out so you might memorize it for the times when he’s not able to be this close.

As his fingertips graze beneath the hem of your shirt, your eyes go wide, stuttering breath accompanied by panicked words, “H-Hana? Is she-”

Shouto chuckles, “She’s laid down for her nap. We have about two hours.”

The devilish glint in his eyes does little to quell the rampant thoughts running in your mind. You suddenly want to feel his hands and mouth everywhere on your body, insatiable in your lust for his touch.

“Sh-Shouto, please,” you’re panting and he hasn’t even undressed you yet, “need you.”

A devout confession such as that one, something so primal in its nature, shifts his demeanor from playful to sinful. Now his fingertips are dancing beneath your shirt, palming over your skin like he might find a hidden treasure in your bones.

He shakes his head, nose grazing your cheek as he starts towards your collarbone, “Tell me what you need, darling.”

“Need you.”

You are quick in your answer, eyes screwed shut at the tantalizing ministrations of his fingers on your flesh. He is teasing you, just close enough to your breast that it hitches your breathing, but not too close to where you can feel pleasure. A hot wash of arousal rolls into your body, slick beginning to gather between your thighs.

“More specific,” the words are muttered around the skin of your chest, one of his hands tugging on your collar to bare more of your body to him.

You whine, bucking your hips upward, knowing exactly the shape his cock will be in beneath the underwear that has him caged from you. You reach forward and tug at the waistline of his briefs, “Please, Shouto, I want to feel you.”

At the mention of feel, he takes you by surprise as he slips two fingers between your folds, curling into you quickly. You muffle your whine into the pillow, turning your face so your cheek is smushed against the downy cushion. Shouto’s palm that isn’t occupied with your tight heat tugs your shirt up over the tops of your breasts, baring your chest to the cool air of the bedroom.

“You are feeling me, sweetheart,” he teasingly licks over your nipple, thankful for the lack of a bra separating you from his wanton tongue.

Another moan drags salaciously from your lips, vibrating your throat and making his cock twitch, “Sho’, wan’ your cock. Please.”

You’re able to drag his pants and briefs down at once, his cock springing free from the restricting fabric. When it bobs against his abdomen, enflamed red cockhead leaking pre-come, you feel saliva build up in the back of your throat. You start to pump him as best you can, watching as his weighty balls swing under your touch.

Everything about him is enticing, from his dual-toned hair to his heterochromatic eyes to his chiseled body. You’d use your tongue on every part of him if he’d let you, but right now you’re focused on only one thing.

Once Shouto has coaxed enough of your arousal to coat his hand, he curls his fingers into you one last time, collecting the silvery fluid on his fingers, and then stands to step out of his clothes. You keen at the loss of contact, eyes wide open so you don’t miss a second.

“C’mon, baby, take your clothes off for me.”

At his command, you’re stripping down until you’re bare in front of him, clothes in a pool of fabric on the floor right next to his. Even the simple intimacy of his clothing overlapped with yours does things to your heart, a pinpricking sensation making your skin heat.

“Hi,” he whispers, fingers framing your face as you get lost in his touch. His voice is gentle, and his touch is probing in the best of ways, a genuine smile tugging his lips upward as you echo the word back to him.

You can feel your arousal tumbling within the confines of your body, begging to be put to use as you feel his cock against your thigh. Todoroki guides you back into the mattress, shoulders pressing into the cool sheets, your body given some sort of contrast to the molten heat circulating under your skin. Your blushed skin draws Shouto’s attention, eyes dragging over each inch of your body, mesmerized by your beauty.

Todoroki shakes his head, “You’re beautiful, you know?”

And at the end of his sentence, acting like punctuation, his cock slides between your heat.

Your eyelids flutter shut and your hands are on him in an instant, nails dug into his flesh to try and dispel some of the energy already built up within your fragile body. Shouto feels lightning spark up into his spine, the trails of it striking his hidden heart, licking at the edges of the glass box keeping him imprisoned from the world.

As your cunt clenches around him and your mouth utters his name like a prayer, Shouto can tell that his chest is constricting, tightening around his heart in an attempt to break himself free from the confines of his past.

“Sho’,” you’re mewling for him now as the veins of his cock drag salaciously against your tight, glutenous walls. Silvery slick coats his dick and he moans as your pussy clamps again.

He begins to build up the speed of his thrusts, his thumb brushing over your clit slowly, the very beginning of a pleasurable end building up within your belly. His mouth is attached to anything on you he can find – breast, collarbone, jaw, throat, cheek. Teeth and tongue lash out at you, parting his mouth so his heated breath can wash over your body.

Shouto focuses as best he can on forcing heat down the length of his arm, pinpointing the warmest point onto the tip of his thumb. You preen, eyes bulging out of your sockets well enough that he can translate your pleasure. On the opposing hand, the one currently preoccupied with your nipple, begins to freeze. Gooseflesh trembles on his arm but he does not mind, not when he gets to hear your panting whines of his name mixed with the begging sounds of please, please, please.

“Such a good girl,” Shouto murmurs into the thin skin of your throat, tongue delving from between his lips to lavish your jugular. “So pretty, laid out just for me.”

You nod your head as best you can, eyes wide as you drink in his praise. Your mouth bobs open but you can’t form words, not anything intelligent anyway. Shouto reaches his icy thumb towards your lips, brushing his cool touch over the heated skin, steam wafting between the two of you.

“Have you been thinking about this as long as I have?” he asks rhetorically, not expecting you to answer based on the fucked out look in your eyes, the drool seeping from the corner of your mouth as his body makes quick work of you. Shouto grunts, “I’ve wanted to take you against every damn surface in this house for months.”

His left hand peels from your clit, running up over the curve of your thigh to press beneath your knee, pushing your leg upward so he can thrust into you from a better angle. Your hands are stuck on the sheets now, his body just out of reach thanks to the twisting of your hips. Shouto slams into you, balls slapping your ass as he ruts forward.

You feel his cock harden even further from within the confines of your cunt, the tip of him brushing against the spongy corner of your insides. After another deep thrust he’s bottomed out within you, hips absolutely flush with your thighs as he presses into you.

Shouto leans forward, not daring to pull himself away from you just yet, enjoying the way you envelope him fully, “You think you can come for me, love? I want to feel you come all over my cock.”

“Y-Yes, Shouto, I-I’m getting there, almost,” you promise him, eyes fucked out to the point you can barely make sense of his frame loitering above you. Your lower lip wobbles as you pout, “A-Are you gonna-fuck-want you to come in me.”

It’s a simple sentence, but the weight of it makes Todoroki’s heart stop. He knows you’re on preventatives, he’s had to stay home with Hana to cover during the day for your doctor’s visits. But something stirs at the base of his cock, weighing in the thick of his body, and for some reason he wishes you were his for the taking in every sense of the word.

As you whimper beneath him, his eyes trail over your body, landing on your belly. His fiery touch grazes the swell of your stomach where he knows his cock is pressed deep within you. His balls throb at the thought of coating every inch of you in his spend, you begging for more as it leaks out of you and onto the sheets; him drawing you into another round just to make sure that you’re stuffed full.

Suddenly, a fracture within his chest allows him to breathe deeper. As you buck your hips into him, begging him for more, telling him how good he’s making you feel, Shouto recognizes the fragile box surrounding his heart, guarding it from the world, has begun to shatter.

“Shouto, please,” you are begging him now, glassy eyes and pitched tone designed just for him, “Need to feel you, everywhere.”

Your plea is the final rock thrown at the glass box, cracking it in every direction. Shards of emotion lodge in his throat, tearing into him so he cannot breathe. As he gasps for breath, fingers digging into your skin, he knows he’s bruising you but he can’t bring himself to think of it as anything other than finally marking you down at his.

And then, when your breathy voice curls in the air, settling on his chest like a balm, he feels the glass melt away, turning to liquid fire in his gut. The words you utter tear open his heart, leaving a gaping, belligerent wound that he knows only you can mend.

“I love you, Shouto, I love you too.”

His eyes find yours, wide and wanting. You nod as if that will solidify his place in the universe, tears blurring your vision, repeating the sentiment over and over again, uncaring to the way your face looks glassy beneath the lowlight of the bedroom. You just need him to know, need him to understand.

“Shit,” he pushes the heel of his palm into the bottom of your stomach, itching to feel the way his cock pulses in and out of you as he thrusts into your body. His thoughts are even more permanent now, the idea of filling you up, pouring his body into you in the most primal way possible, is the only thing he can see. Your hand makes its way into his hair, tugging at the crown of his head as you lean forward.

A mix of crimson and white is bunched between your fists, matching the little tufts of hair that tickle your pelvis every time he bottoms out within you. You scrape your nails against his scalp, but that only spurs him on faster, panting moans busting his throat open and begging you for more.

Your lashes flutter against the tops of your cheeks, mouth parted so he can see the pink of your tongue, “Sh-Sho’, I’m close.”

He makes it his mission to twitch his cock within your walls, providing an extra layer of stimulation as his channels himself into you mercilessly. Somehow, he does it with such a finesse that it does not feel rushed or sloppy. Shouto is very careful, precise, in everything he does, and you are not surprised it works its way into the mannerisms he exhibits between the sheets as well.

“C’mon, darling,” he coos into your ear, folding your thighs upward so you’re fully pressed into the mattress, “I want you to come for me, yeah? I want you to coat my cock. You can do it, you’re close, I can feel it.”

His praise intertwined with the thickness of his cock bulging within you breaks the crest of the wave, allowing pleasure to flow through your body and onto his cock, coating him in your thick, sweet release.

“Fuck, you feel good.” Shouto continues to thrust upward into you, eyes focused on your face as he uses your cunt to bring his own euphoria down from the clouds. He’s looking down at you, jaw hung wide as he buries his cock into your tight heat, enjoying the way your slick lubricates his length.

You buck up into him and he drops his head to your collarbone, thrusts becoming sloppier the longer he tries to hang on to the edge of the cliff. Your hand in his hair tugs on the strands, mouth by his ear as you whisper, “Please, Shouto, want to feel you come in me. I want you to pump me full of your hot load, stuff me-ah.”

His hips stutters as he releases his seed into you, tongue lapping at your throat carelessly to try and force his body not to start up again. The need to feel you coming around him, begging for his cock and come, is something he has been denying for too long.

“I love you,” he whispers into the curve of your earlobe, nipping at the skin as his hips still. “Fuck, I love you.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to the curve of his scalp, “I love you too.”

As he reaches the extent of his high, he presses his body flat into you, cock twitching within your core. Your palms find his shoulders, grazing gently with your fingernails until he’s moaning into your neck, hot breath fanning out over your skin.

“Unless you want to go again, I suggest you put an end to that,” he warns, but there is no intent behind it.

You laugh, rubbing your ankle against his calf, “We’ve got a little one about to wake from her nap. Maybe later.”

And that is a promise you fully intend to keep.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“Momma?”

You turn your head, pancakes on the griddle in front of you, “Yes, honey?”

Hana bounces towards you, white chiffon dress bubbling out at her knees, “When is breakfast ready?”

“When daddy gets back from his run,” you answer her, squatting in front of her to smooth the wrinkles from the fabric of her dress. “I made yours with choco-chips.”

Her eyes go wide and you feel a little sunbeam shining directly on your heart, warming your chest. She grabs you by the cheeks, palms squishing your lips together, “You can’t tell daddy!”

“Oh, I won’t,” you promise, voice distorted from the way she has you in her grasp. You brush a hand through her silver curls, tucking the strands away from her face. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Don’t tell daddy what?”

Hana squeals, turning on her heels to sprint towards the garage door. She’s on Shouto’s leg in an instant, clutching him like her life depends on it. You stand back to your feet, brushing your thighs clean before turning back to the griddle to start another round of pancakes.

“We can’t tell you or else it won’t be a secret, duh!” Hana sticks her tongue out as she pokes Shouto’s leg, rolling her eyes like it should be obvious. “Look, Momma’s making pancakes!”

Todoroki looks across the room at you, eyes reminding you of colorful gems as they behold you. Every time you catch him staring at you, you swear it’s even more infatuated than the last, his love for you only growing as time passes.

“Is she?” He peels her from his leg to shift her into his arms, holding her securely against his side. Todoroki walks over to you, leaning into the counter so he’s close enough that you can reach him but far enough that he can’t burn Hana on the griddle.

“You’re back quicker than I expected,” you admit, pouring batter out onto the stovetop. You grab the spatula, prepared to flip once they look done enough, “Did you pull something?”

Shouto shakes his head, leaning forward to intercept you with a kiss to the lips, “I just missed you.”

“Ew, gross! Kissing means cooties!” Hana pushes your faces apart, a hand on your mouths as she dramatically lolls her tongue out of her mouth to prove her disgust.

You chuckle, leaning forward to brush her hair from her eyes again, tucking it behind her ear even though you know it will spring forward not long after. Your eyes flash from her to her father, watching the pride settle into his irises, solidifying them even more. A gentle touch of your hand to his bicep brings him back to you, gaze unwavering as he maps out the features of your face yet again, each time finding something new to behold.

“Well, that means you have time to shower before we eat,” you squeeze his arm and return to your station at the griddle, flipping the next set of pancakes. “I’ve still got to make eggs and bacon, and some hash browns for the princess.”

Hana is beaming, bright smile tugging on the strings of your heart, “Momma makes the best hash browns.”

Todoroki places her back down on the ground, patting her backside as a silent gesture to tell her to go play. She takes his hint, sprinting back into the living room to resume her tea party with a stuffed elephant and a Ken barbie doll.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You never-ooh.”

He’s got you by the neck with one hand, the other anchoring to your hip to hold you close. Todoroki melds your mouths together, the heat of his body quickening your pulse. He steps closer, knee between your thighs so you can feel the hard bulge pressing into the fabric of his running shorts.

You hum as he parts from you, pancakes momentarily forgotten in the wake of his affections. You pat your hands on his chest, gnawing on your lower lip, “Smooth one, Todoroki.”

Shouto pinches your hip, growing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, “You. Me. Nap time.”

“Oh?” you ask as he unwinds himself from you, nudging your body back towards the griddle.

“And I’m not talking about sleeping.”

Todoroki disappears from around the corner, slipping up the stairs to your now shared bedroom.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your lips. When you go to turn this set of pancakes, the diamond sitting on your left hand catches the luminescent lights of the kitchen and you marvel at it. You roll your ring around on your finger, trying to find a different angle to appreciate it from, but you’ve already memorized the shape of it after three years of marriage.

Your palm finds the gentle swell of your navel beneath the baggy t-shirt you’re wearing, one of Shouto’s early proofs for a new merchandise design. You bite your lip and look down, speaking to the rustling new life currently blooming in your belly, “Here’s to tomorrow, little one. May it always be just a little better than today.”

The pancakes are done and the bacon is sizzling when Shouto returns with damp hair and a pair of sweats on the lower half of his body. He curls an arm around you from behind, kissing your shoulder, “Smells good, love.”

You turn to offer him a kiss, which he takes with fervor. Hana voices her disgust from her seat at the table, but Shouto hushes her quickly with a playful rise of his eyebrow, pointed finger making her giggle.

The three of you are sat down to breakfast, just like any other Saturday, but this one feels special for some reason. You can’t quite make it out; maybe it’s the sun shining outside or the crisp breeze blowing through the open windows, but your soul is settled in a way that can only be achieved by utter bliss.

“Hey,” Shouto calls you from your stupor, “your choco-chip pancakes are going cold.”

You blink slowly, returning your gaze to him, a gentle smile on your face.

At least you’ll get to spend the rest of your life with someone as mindful and kind as Todoroki Shouto.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

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[deafwestnewsies]

be my first last kiss

You can plan on a change in the weather or time, but you'd never planned on him changing his mind.

jack kelly x davey jacobs

read it on my ao3!

Earnest to goodness, Jack Kelly was going to murder Racetrack Higgins.

No, Anthony Higgins, this was the sort of thing that makes you pull out the tarnished christian name of a friend (or so you thought) you’ve known since he was toppling over on baby-fattened legs. Anthony Higgins would die by the sword of Jack Kelly.

He just had to get this godforsaken Youtube video filmed first.

You’re doing this for the cash, Jack grumbled to himself as he passed through the metal doors of a nondescript building on the Lower East Side- it was the kind of place being slowly taken over by hip and fun corporations promising Asian-fusion bars and eco-friendly thrift stores while edging out the relic businesses built on the backs of immigrant dreams. Jack couldn’t stand areas like this, the air thick with wasted luxury, so he rarely left the barrio. Why would he? Spot Conlon slept in the bedroom next to his. Katherine Plumber and Sarah Jacobs ran the bookstore that bought his baked goods and sold them for decent money. Medda lived down the street with her plethora of children, and Racetrack still beat the known path, doing tricks on the street corner for spare change and internet views. Davey- David. David Jacobs wasn’t there. It was right where Jack wanted to be.

Much unlike the dim studio where he now shuffled his feet, waiting for the perky young PA with bright red streaks in her hair to come back with further information about the video he would be shooting. Jack wasn’t a stranger to this small production company; He participated in a few Youtube videos back before they had millions of subscribers, he played truth or dare with lots of liquor and a complete stranger, he confessed about the first time he fell in love so it could be put to pathetic music.

Cash where you could get it, right?

“Kelly, right?” Cherry Streaks was back with a vengeance.

“Jack, actually,” he corrected.

“So you’re going to stand over there where the little blue X marks the spot and wait until the producer, Adam, starts asking you a few questions. The first one might be a test for our boom guy. Answer honestly, we can pretty much tell when you’re making up a story by this point. After that, the main part of the video will begin. Got it?” She was pointing wildly with a Number 2 pencil that had previously been stuck through her ponytail, and she smelled faintly of jasmine. Jack felt dizzy.

“Wait, I thought this was one of those ‘Choose who’s the best kisser out of ten strangers’ type of deal?” I mean, that’s what Race told me- oh God. Oh Santa Maria. Oh Saint Francis.

The young woman smiled like she was keeping an excellent secret. “Have fun, Jack Kelly.”

Walking off at her ominous dismissal, Jack stood where he was directed. The fluorescent lighting made him sweat under the knowledge that he had virtually no idea what he was doing there, Race had lied to him so that he would participate in some sort of sick, horrible scheme, and for all he knew, behind door number three could be his third grade teacher with a baseball bat and a basic multiplication grudge.

“Jack! It’s nice to see you again.”

Romeo was walking towards him with that easy gait Jack had memorized so long ago- Romeo had shot the original videos on an Amazon tripod and the unfounded hope of human connection, and now he owned the entire shebang. Jack dropped his tense shoulders to give him a warm smile. “Romeo. Boy, am I glad to see a friendly face.” Jack lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “You’ve got a production assistant who actually does work, so I’m assuming we’ve died and you earned a really nice deal in Heaven?”

Romeo barked out a laugh. “If I’ve died, do not resuscitate. I’ll never be able to look at another bodega meatball sub after cooking food bought in a real grocery store.”

“Rub it in, why don’tcha?” Jack punched the shorter man on the shoulder. “Listen, Romeo, you gotta tell me what I’m in for, a buddy totally sold me out for the cash and I have no clue what this project is gonna be like.”

Before Romeo could respond, a tall, lofty man behind the camera cleared his throat. “Darling? We’re ready to begin when you are.”

“Jack, meet Specs. Or Adam, but we all know how well nicknames stick. Specs, this is the old friend I was telling you about.” Romeo ended right above Specs’ elbow, and it was all Jack could do not to laugh.

The man fixed his thoughtful gaze on him. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack. You’ve got a real presence on the camera. Have you ever considered acting?”

“I’m afraid I’m, uh,” Jack flexed a paint-stained hand. “Strictly canvas, as they say.”

Nodding as if that was a phrase people commonly used and not something Jack invented on the fly, Specs then clapped his hands together. “Folks, let’s film this sonofabitch.”

---

“I’m Jack, and I’m a twenty-four year old artist living in New York City.”

“Have you ever been in a relationship?” Specs questioned from behind the camera.

Jack blinked in surprise. “Sure. One throughout high school, another in college and a little bit beyond. I wouldn’t call myself a heartbreaker or anything.”

“Do you stay friends with your exes?”

“One of ‘em, yea. It was more of an amicable thing, you know. She ended up being a lesbian. And I am… not.” His clumsy fingers tugged at a constricting collar.

“And the other?”

“Just because I’m not a heartbreaker doesn’t mean I can’t be a real asshole sometimes,” Jack nervously chuckled. (Davey had laid out rose petals, for God’s sake. Rose petals.)

“Was this girl the high school girlfriend, or the college one?”

“Boy,” Jack quickly corrected. “Man. I guess. He was in college- four and a half years.” (It took him four days to clear away the rotting flowers, the bleeding color slowly seeping into his carpet. Katherine found him delirious with whiskey on the bathroom floor; Sarah couldn’t bear to walk through his front door.)

“How’d you meet him?”

(He twisted in his high-backed blue chair. “It’s habláis in el presente.”) “Freshman year of high school actually. Spanish class. Funny story, actually, that other girl I dated? His sister. Broke her heart for his. He was so mad at me that we didn’t talk for like, months after.”

“It was six and a half months, actually.”

Of things Jack was expecting to see today, Spiderman was more likely than David. A flash mob singing death metal, maybe. Pigs flying through the polluted air.

“I was told to come in. I now see why.” David’s eyes narrowed behind his thin wire frames, different from the heavy Ray-Bans that he had dedicated himself to sophomore year of high school. Jack hated that he looked older, wiser, and all around… better.

Specs cleared his throat before the bewildered set of men (one more angry than the other, both desperately avoiding eye contact) could demand what sort of sick joke this was. “Can you introduce yourself?”

They broke up on a Tuesday, an insignificant, momentary Tuesday. Fourteen months ago. (Yes, fourteen months, like their terrible split was a baby that Jack was nurturing bit by bit. He refused to round down- fourteen months ago, he left David Jacobs.) So when David ran his thumb across his jawline, a nervous tick older than his younger brother, Jack couldn’t fathom why he felt so relieved. Some things never did change. “David. Jacobs.” David’s jaw flexed as he looked into the camera. “I dated Jack for almost five years.”

“Tell us about your other relationships.”

“Unfortunately, I spent the better part of high school and college pining after a total cocksock. Not a whole lot of time for casual dating in between.”

A deep silence permeated the studio as two boom mic operators swapped awkward glances. Jack didn’t attempt to defend himself- he was sort of a cocksock. David Jacobs had asked him to uproot what little life he had in New York and move to Santa Fe for a prestigious, so-accolated-you-could-cry medical school, and Jack Kelly broke up with him over containers of kung pao chicken and scattered rose petals. He was a cocksock, a dickhead, and complete asshole. An ex-boyfriend of mass proportions.

“Okay, so.” Specs was wiping at his glasses with the tail of his shirt. Jack wanted to snap them in half. “Today’s video is entitled ‘Exes kiss for the first time since their breakup’. If you need more explanation…”

“I think we’ve got it.” David snapped, clenching his fists rapidly.

Jack stepped half an inch closer to David and began murmuring under his breath. “Davey, if you don’t want-”

“Don’t call me Davey.” His eyes were alight with flame- Jack’s chest caught fire.

Of all the things that felt domestic when dating Davey Jacobs, kissing him never managed to become routine. Davey kissed like he earnestly meant it. The gears in his brilliant mind would grind to a halt so he could dedicate himself to the lilting curve of Jack’s mouth, a gentle sweep of warmth when the artist’s mouth was otherwise preoccupied with his needless words, and the world would spin on a delicate axis. (Jack’s shoulders rose to meet Davey, the physical ache of being someone’s other half drawing him forward. Davey had avoided him for so long, Jack living on a diet of lingering stares and a brief touch of the hand, that kissing him felt like a dying man knelt at a replenished well. How did they exist for so long without this innate knowledge of the universe? Could he stand to go on a single second longer without the praise of Davey Jacob’s lips?) Of all the things Jack missed about spending his life with Davey Jacobs, kissing him was certainly one of them.

There was a moment where the pads of Jack’s fingertips brushed the nape of David’s neck, a habit borne from the small noise it would draw from the back of his throat, and the steely corporate floor felt more like the worn carpet in the old thirty-second street apartment. Jack could feel his thready pulse with the gentle press of a thumb.

Davey was a fan of the dramatics- he would pull away from a passionate kiss in the middle of a busy New York street to stare into Jack’s eyes, foreheads gently touching and cheeks furiously blushing. Now, he simply drew back. Took a step away. Swiped at his lips with the back of his hand.

Jack felt like he was falling. (“If you ever break up with me,” Jack began. He laughed at Davey’s unexpected shudder, the honest and visceral kind. “Make it quick.”

“What about when you break up with me?” Davey peered over his glasses.

Crinkling his nose, Jack quickly answered before the other boy could detail any breakup preferences. “I’m not an idiot, Dave. ‘M not going anywhere.”)

---

He stared at the limp fifty dollars in his hand. Romeo had apologized, explaining that the people who had organized this got half the cut, and handed them both an envelope- Jack, one with “Tony Higgins” that he planned to run through his shredder, and David, one with “Sarah Jacobs,” which made Jack gawk in disbelief.

Jack didn’t want to walk away; David’s feet were shuffling against the worn pavement.

“It’s funny,” David started. “I listened to a lot of Taylor Swift to get over you.”

He winced. “Sorry?”

“Please. I know she’s been your top artist since 2013.”

(Katherine walked through a worryingly unlocked apartment door. “Is that... Begin Again? Jack, what the fuck are you doing?” She had seconds to worry about the cluster of wilted flower petals her heel had put a hole through before Sarah pointed at the pair of legs sticking out of the bathroom’s entrance.) “Yeah, okay. Fair. But… funny? Did I miss a joke?”

David closed his eyes to roll them, as he so often did when he was trying to be polite, and it hurt to be on the receiving end. “We just had our last kiss. You know, like-”

“I’m Joe Jonas?” Jack interrupted, bewildered. The semi-glare he received in return was all he needed to know- “Right. Dickhead. Listen, Dave- David, why didn’t you tell me you were back in town?”

There was a brief moment where something unrecognizable flashed over David’s face- pity? Regret? Dejection? It was quickly replaced by a soft smile tugging at the edge of his lips, his eyes glazed over with a practiced professionalism. “I’ll see you around, Jack. Have a good day.”

David turned and walked down the street, and Jack just missed the passing moment he chose to look back.

---

Comment on EXES KISS FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THEIR BREAKUP by IncredibleKinsey: those two dudes are all mad and then just make out like that????? yeah okay call me when the wedding happens

[selfproducingfanfictionauthor]

looking back at you - part i

Summary: Everybody talks about the terror, the calm, the longing in staring in the abyss. But nobody talks what happens when the abyss starts staring right back at you. Or, you’ve love him all your life and now you don’t know what to do. 

Pairing: Seokjin x reader

Warnings: This scene is heavily inspired by the scene between Laurie and Amy in Little Women (2019) although this story will veer off its course as we go on.  Notes: Short chapters for quicker updates is my jam. I love Seokjin and I’m finally writing for hiiiim.  Word Count: 1k *ish*

Everybody talks about the terror, the calm, the longing in staring in the abyss. But nobody talks what happens when the abyss starts staring right back at you.

You’ve loved Seokjin all your life. Have looked for, at, and after him ever since you’ve known him. You’ve looked at him with a sheer of innocence in your youth that eventually fell away when you grew older and learn how to desire. And your eyes began to stray from just his beautiful face but down to his chest, to the way his arm flexes when he lifts books for your mother, and to the way his thick thighs fills his breeches.

You’ve looked at him with naked desire and longing for more than a decade, it’s impossible he doesn’t know. And yet, he’s never looked at you with anything other than a passing glance, all his sight consumed by your brighter, whirlwind of a woman sister.

And for so long, you were angry. Angry at the world, at your sister, at the universe for making you less and putting you beside someone who makes you look even lesser. As a child, jealousy is your greatest flaw but it was negligible as many children’s flaws are but when nobody’s looking - and when had anyone ever bothered to look? - between your elder sister’s departure to Seoul, and your younger sister’s death, you’ve turned into a woman.

A woman with responsibilities. To secure a husband, to secure a future for the good of the family. And a woman with that lofty of a goal cannot afford to carry anymore of her childhood flaws. And so you’ve changed.

Away from the family that never saw you, from the sister that outshone you, and from a man who didn’t love you - you’ve changed, grown into your cheeks and filled out your dresses. Learned how banter with wit, flirt with your eyes, keep them hooked enough to come back, give enough push to tease but never to be admonished for it.

And with your own charms, wit, and beauty, now, you’re on the precipice of achieving your goal in the form of a proposal from another Mr. Kim. (“You’ve always known you’re going to be a Mrs. Kim,” your mother wrote, “you just never specified which one.” - ah but you did, in your prayers, every night, in every temple visit and in every coined toss in every fountain but that’s all for naught isn’t it?)

So, like everything else, of course, Seokjin comes to ruin it all. As he always does for you, and you, stupid girl you are - the one you revert to for him, with just one glance, one smile - allowed him.

“You’re being mean, Seokjin.” Childhood bleeds into your words and you completely miss the way his eyes flit to your mouth back to your eyes, and the sheer despair in what he sees in them. Your words a deflection to his earlier command (a plea, he wishes you could see) of “Don’t marry him.”

“Mean? How am I being mean?” he asks, his heart aching at the complete distrust in your eyes even when it’s not laid upon him but at his clavicle, as if you fear even just looking into his eyes.

When you were younger, you never thought of Seokjin to be capable of being anything other than perfect. He’s light, wit, beauty and charm made alive with every gesture of his beautiful hands, with every theatrical delivery of his woes.

But you know better now. After all, hadn’t it even been a month since your disastrous argument at the ball? Where he showed up drunk, heartbroken from a long-coming rejection from your sister, with two equally beautiful and bold women draped on his shoulders like ermine fur. Where he stared at you, surprised, as if he hadn’t made you wait for an hour. Surprised, perhaps, that you even showed up at all.

Younger Y/N would’ve cowered and wept at home, but you’re older now. Wiser. You know your worth and even if you love him - and you do, quite desperately, the type of love that consumes and threatens everything - you will not compromise on this.

“You— you can’t do this to me,” you say, and you allow yourself one small reprieve, a reminder of youth long gone and clutch the sides of your dress like a petulant child trying to keep their crying at bay, “Not now.”

Seokjin advances on you, purposeful steps eating away the distance between your heart and his and wills you to understand and allows a bit of his gentlemanly wiles fade away, “If not now, when? When you’re married to Namjoon? Is that when? Would you rather I stand witness at your wedding and protest in front of hundreds of people—“

“You wouldn’t—“

“I would,” Seokjin interrupts, his hands on yours pulling it to his chest, “I would for you.”

His heart cracks yet again at the distrust and suspicion in your eyes as you pull back your delicate hands, stepping back looking every bit of a woman you’ve turned into. “You lie.”

You turn away, and suddenly your dress is too tight and you heave out heavy breaths, stepping out of the shadow of the courtyard to where the sun lays its rays heavily. Underneath it, you are brilliant, shining and beautiful in Seokjin’s eyes, and he wonders how he’s missed it — how you’ve missed it.

You’re beautiful. So, so beautiful. 

Enamored as he was, he’s not prepared for you to eat up the distance between the two of you, your very presence suddenly so big and undeniable in his life.

“I…” you begin, eyes dry and voice steady, your aunt would’ve been proud. “I have been second to my sister my whole life. Second-born, second place, the spare daughter — what have you. But I will not be someone you settle for just because you cannot have her.”

If your sister is a whirlwind, then you are the sea, Seokjin thinks. And the two are incomparable, forces of nature but while he is nothing but swept into your sister’s world, you— you make him want to sail, and dive, and drown in you.

“Not when I’ve spent my whole life loving you.”

He wants to tell you, but as you turn away, hair glinting in the sunlight, steps sure and back straight, he fears that he has lost his chance.  

End Notes: I think this will be a short series, maybe 5 parts!  Hearts are appreciated but comments are gold. Let me know what you think and if you want to be included in a tag list!

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[twothumbsandnostakeincanon]

Have I talked on here about my fake exes bachelorette au?? I feel like maybe I haven’t. It’s something I obsess about like, once every six months so I’ll probably never write it, but let me talk about it for a minute.

Peter and Stiles are both contestants, competing for Lydia/Kira/idk Deaton maybe or whoever, and they immediately start off at level 10 snark. There is no off switch. They’re enjoying themselves immensely, and most of the cast and crew can see that their barbs aren’t actually hurtful, just a little abrasive.

But if you take away the context of their comments, like any good reality show does, their interactions instantly become much more Spicy.™

Sometime after a week or so of shooting, a producer gets them alone and suggests that they pretend to be exes.

Peter and Stiles are 100% up for the game.

Anyway here have a few snippets that are never going to grow into anything else:

“I didn’t come here to make friends, I came to win.”

“Really? What a bummer. ‘Cause, you know, the real treasure was the friends we made along the way, so that’s why I came. Plus the food. The catering is amazing, have you tried- where are you going?” 

A camera followed Hale as he walked away from Stiles, rolling his eyes. Stiles stayed where he was, smirking. His eyes were immediately drawn to the very well tailored retreating ass. After all, this was reality TV, ergo everyone here was unrealistically beautiful. It would be an insult to the genre for Stiles not to properly appreciate it. 

__________

“Where are my pants???”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Normally I would assume they’re on your legs, but apparently that’s not the case.”

Stiles wiped his still-dripping hair out of his eyes, just in time to see Peter’s eyes travel down toward the towel wrapped around his waist. It was tempting to make a remark, but there was a slightly more pressing issue. 

“My pants, Peter. Where are they. I left them my room when I went to the sauna and now every single pair is gone,” Stiles said with a scowl.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” Peter drawled. “I was doing laundry and I didn’t have quite enough for a load. I saw your full basket, and decided you wouldn’t mind if I did some laundry for you.”

Stiles stared, trying to decide whether or not he was mad. Sure, he had no pants, but on the other hand, he also had no laundry… he sighed. 

“Whatever. You had to pick through my dirty laundry and I’m getting clean clothes out of it, so whatever.”

And with that he let the towel drop and walked away to the private yard. Some sunbathing sounded nice. 

While a little disgruntled that Stilinski hadn’t been more irritated, Peter couldn’t bring himself to think of his endeavor as a failure. Certainly not when he was watching those magnificent glutes flex on their way out the door.

__________

It was one of the very few times the cameras were turned off and no sound was being recorded. Stiles, Peter and the producer, Braeden, stood in a dim spare room, filled with various props and filming equipment. 

“You want us to what?” Peter said with disbelief. 

Stiles grinned with delight. 

“Pretend we’re exes!! Oh this is gonna be great, I’m totally in.”

“What??” said Peter again. 

“The little feud you two have going is great for ratings, but we were thinking that if you made it a little more… personal, then this season is really going to catch fire,” Braeden explained. “You don’t need to say anything explicitly untrue, just… insinuate heavily.”

“Oh no, if I’m going to do this, I’m going All-The-Way,” Stiles said with emphasis. “ ‘He left me barefoot and pregnant in the snow’ all-the-way.”

Peter snorted. 

“But dear, who got the dog in the divorce?” he asked sarcastically.

“Oh honey, we never needed a divorce, you left me at the altar,” replied Stiles, turning big, mournful eyes on Peter. 

Peter shook his head, and said, “I guess this is what I signed up for. What the hell, I’ll do it.”

“We’re gonna get so many endorsement deals out this!” Stiles said gleefully.

“Endorsement deals for what? Tinder?” Peter asked, a dubious eyebrow raised.

“Tinder, Grindr; if we angle it right I bet we could make a deal with a law firm that does D-list celebrity divorces.”

“What lofty goals you have,” Peter said dryly. 

“It’s why you fell in love with me, sweetheart,” Stiles replied, gooey eyed and saccharine sweet. “That and my gorgeous ass.”

Peter looked down speculatively. 

“I could overlook a lot for an ass like that,” he mused. 

“Oh, this is going to be so good,” Braeden whispered. 

__________

“Damn it!” Stiles cursed. Why did the challenge have to be asparagus?? Who even likes asparagus? Besides Peter, apparently, because he’d eaten the whole goddamn casserole in seven minutes and 13 seconds. 

As Stiles bent over with his hands on his knees, willing the casserole to stay down, Peter passed by and clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

“Better luck next time Stilinski,” Peter purred. 

Stiles’ eyes narrowed as he silently fumed. 

Two hours later, in front of the confessional cam, Stiles worked up an eyeful of unshed tears. 

“It makes sense that Peter would win today’s challenge… he’s always loved asparagus. I remember once, back when we were…” he let out a choked little noise. “…When we used to know each other, I once made him dinner. Asparagus and salmon… he never came home. He ‘worked late’ that night,” Stiles was sure to use air quotes for full effect, “like so many other nights. I ended up eating the leftovers myself.” Stiles gave a dramatic sniff and pasted a pathetic smile on his face. “I haven’t cared much for asparagus since then.”

_________

“… cared much for asparagus since then.” 

Shit, this was good. Bad for him obviously, thought Peter, but it was a good attack and it was really good TV. Braeden had been right. It was time to bring his A-game. 

_________

As the 9 remaining contestants rode the limo to the next destination, Peter leaned against the window and sighed dramatically, making sure his face was in full view of the car camera.

“Just look at that view! Stiles, look! Doesn’t it remind you of that trip we took to the Caribbean?” Peter said, with a fond look on his face. 

Stiles hummed noncommittally, unsure of where this was going, but knowing it probably wasn’t good for him. 

“The weather was gorgeous for that whole trip… it’s too bad I had to spend most of it inside that tiny hospital room.” Peter reached over and patted Stiles on the leg. “I’m just glad you didn’t let it get in the way of your fun while we were there. You still went scuba diving, and hiking, remember? And didn’t that nice dance instructor take you out for a practical demonstration? You hardly wasted any time in that chair next to my bed!” Peter chuckled. “I just hope you’ve gotten better at identifying what’s egg salad, and what’s crab salad. Don’t want to have to use my epi pen again!” 

And with that, they pulled up to their destination and Peter hopped out of the limo. 

Stiles’ mouth hung open for a moment before snapping shut. A few of the other contestants were staring at him, waiting for his reaction. Stiles shrugged. 

"We didn’t have a prenup.”

__________

“Shit!” Peter barely had time to catch himself with his hands before his leg gave way, sending him sprawling into the dirt. 

Their bachelorette waited at the end of the footrace, and while he’d been in the lead, Peter certainly wouldn’t be getting there first anymore. He eyed the hole he’d stepped in with vindictive anger, trying to ignore the throb in his ankle. 

He was just attempting to move it when Stiles shot past him, before almost comically windmilling to a stop. He turned around and jogged back.

“Peter? What the fuck are you doing on the ground?”

“Trying to get a date with the dirt,” he bit out through grit teeth, hissing when his ankle vehemently protested movement. 

“Stop it moron,” Stiles chided. “Look at it, it’s already swelling. Here-” Stiles swept his jacket off and balled it up, gently lifting Peter’s ankle to elevate it. Another contestant came around the corner and zoomed past them without a second glance. 

They both watched him go. 

“You just lost,” Peter remarked. 

“So did you,” Stiles pointed out, and then shrugged. “Whatever. Maybe this will win me brownie points.” He smiled a little crookedly. “Let me go get one of the production paramedics, and then we can get you an x-ray.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, firmly ignoring the soft little place inside of him that surfaced more and more when Stiles was around. 

“Stop being dramatic, it’s not broken.” 

Stiles looked at the ankle skeptically. 

“I dunno dude. Ankles aren’t usually that shade of purple. Or that puffy. You have like, the world’s largest singular cankle right now.”

“-Cankle?!”

“I’m your ex, you can trust me to call it like I see it.”

“Cankle!! I’m divorcing you.”

“We’re already divorced.”

“Fine, then I’m going to remarry you so that I can divorce you again,” Peter insisted. 

Stiles’ crooked smile grew. 

“I don’t think that’s the theme of the show, Peter.” 

They were still sniping when the paramedics arrived a few minutes later, bachelorette in tow, who had plenty of kisses for both the injured hero and the rescuer.

Anyway obviously this ends when they get caught making out because they forgot to take off their mics. 

[thran-duils]

Haunted House

Summary: For @sherrybaby14 ‘s Halloween challenge. My prompt was the quote, “That costume is becoming on you. Of course, if I were on you I’d be cumming too.” I mean the plot is that an Omega gives into her nature to two hot Alphas. Oh, and the house may or may not be haunted. :D Pairing: Omega!Fem Reader x Alpha!Tony x Alpha!Steve Rating: Explicit Words: 2,698 Warnings (for the whole fic): Smut, ABO dynamics, dub-con, some horror

Masterpost

You walked up the stone staircase to the house, eyes flittering over all the windows. The house loomed, as if it could see through your very being. It was gorgeous in architecture, weaving stone and stained-glass windows. But, you knew there were stories about it being haunted. It excited you that you were going to be able to stay the night here.

Heels clicking on the stairs, you adjusted your bag, clearing your throat. You had been invited to come here by your employer, Tommy. He said the owner had requested you specifically and you had not asked questions when you saw the first part of the payment. It was lofty and you needed the money.

All that had been required was you to come with a bottle of alcohol, two days’ worth of clothes – although you were not required to stay for the two days –, and a risqué Halloween costume. A sexy, maid is what you had gone for; it seemed appropriate in this house. All lace with a nice black bow at the small of your back.

Suitcase at your side, you threw your coat off, hanging it on the coatrack by the door. You were getting overwhelmed as your eyes traveled the ceiling and walls of the mansion.

“Welcome.”

You knew that voice all too well and crossed your arms when you turned around, facing the billionaire pouring you a drink. He was dressed suave as always, even in joggers and a sweater. He was always effortlessly attractive.

How could your employer not have told you who had requested you specifically?

Smirking at you, he sauntered over, holding out one of the drinks to you. “Serving others seems to be your niche. That costume is becoming on you. Of course, if I were on you I’d be cumming too.”

No matter how much you found him attractive, you were not going to let him forget last time. You could not forget last time… mainly how you had had a hard time with not liking how he had handled you before. Even now, you felt a pull towards him… desire blossoming.

“Really? Again, Mr. Stark?”

“Please, Tony. But, at least you can remember some manners,” Tony stated, stalking closer. You stiffened and he smirked at you, holding the glass out. “Babydoll, come on. I’m sorry I got handsy last time.”

“Handsy?” you scoffed. He had handcuffed you to the bed and fucked you relentlessly.

“You’re too tempting for me,” Tony stated. “I was in a bit of a rut and you drive me a little insane. And I’m always a little rougher when I’ve imbibed too much. And I had that night. I’m sorry. Really. I wanna make it up to you.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you asked, “By inviting me to a creepy mansion?”

Tony cocked his head and said, “Come now. It’s not that creepy. Sure, some people have died in here but you’re gonna find that in most houses older than 1900.” You did not look amused and he said, “Yes, yes. There are stories about it being haunted. People have seen stuff they’ve said. But, really. It’ll be fun. Just you, me, and Cap.”

You rose your brows in surprise. “Cap?”

“He’s aching for some companionship.”

Taking a long sip of your drink, you turned from Tony to examine the room a little bit further. “Didn’t think poster boy for American family values would be going after a prostitute.”

“I don’t want you to be a prostitute.”

“What do you want me to play as then?” you asked coyly.

“Mine.”

“Okay,” you sighed, turning to face him again.

Tony was at your side suddenly and you leaned away from him, unsettled by the fire burning in his eyes. He pinned you up against the counter, his breath hot on your ear.

“All mine. Omega,” he breathed.

You froze, staring at him as he pulled away, a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. How did he know? You were on suppressants. Always had been when you had been around him.

Trying to play it off, you forced yourself to shake your head. “You want me to be an Omega? Bit of an odd roleplay. But I guess…” You reached out to touch his shirt, but he stopped your movement with a tight grip on your wrist. Wincing, you said, “Tony, what—”

“We both know you don’t have to pretend with that one.” He leaned in and inhaled deeply against your neck. “I know you’ve felt that ache.’ His lips gently brushed your skin and you shivered underneath his kiss. “I can taste it.” Involuntarily, you leaned towards him and he smiled against your neck. “Placebos. The last two weeks.”

Your blood ran cold. You knew something had been off about the way you felt. You had felt more desire for your customers than normal.

No no no no.

You tried to jerk away but he held tight.

“It was easy to pay Tommy to switch them out. You know having you employed is a risk for him. Even with the suppressants, you still smell and taste that much different than others. Probably why he only usually lets you take high end jobs. Worth the risk if the price is right. Doesn’t want you getting hurt for a small pile of change.”

How could Tommy have agreed to that? Your mouth was dry. There was a reason Tony was getting under your skin as much as he was now… any Alpha like him. And with Cap in the house too… it was no surprise you would react.

“I think this will be a more exciting experience if we turn this into a game. You like games, don’t you, Y/N?”

Breathing erratically, you decided on a whim to try to play his game. He was in charge after all… an Alpha. He was riled up; you felt his erection against you. Wanting to please him, you got out, “Depends on the game.”

“You run. We seek you out.”

You had not even seen Steve yet.

“You’re joking, right?” you asked him, holding your glass tighter to your chest.

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

He came closer again and laid a gentle hand on your waist. “You’ll be perfect at it.” He leaned in, pecking your cheek. Subtly, you leaned towards him, your mouth open slightly. His eyes were darker now, no doubt him arousing himself thinking of the hunt. His hand slipped beneath your skirt, cupping your ass. This time he gently kissed you, reaching up to you take your glass from you. “Won’t you, babydoll?”

Averting your gaze from his, you nodded. Heart hammering, you were wildly thinking about what you should do? Play his game? Try to hide for the night? Try to scale the fence outside? No. That would be rude.

He drew you from your thoughts, cupping both sides of your face, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. “Steve’s ready. Been more than ready to hold you and fuck you right.” Tony drew in his bottom lip slightly, his eyes raking over you. “As have I.”

Thumb tracing your lip, you shivered as he said, “I know you’re not in heat. But, you like my attention, don’t you? Want me to hold you tight? I didn’t think you’d look and smell so fucking good but I’m not complaining.”

You did not trust yourself to speak, starting to feel frightened about how you were reacting to him scenting you all over your skin, wishing for more. You had not reacted to an Alpha for more than a year since you had started your suppressants. Losing control was scary.

His lips pressed firmly against yours and you responded in like.

“Figure the kitchen table is as good as any place. But I think you’ll be more comfortable on a bed.”

Your breath froze instinctively again as he leaned in. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “This is the part where you run.”

Your footsteps pounded in your ears as you ran down the hallway. You did not know where you were heading and you panicked, knowing damn well Tony knew the layout of this house and he had probably told Steve as well.

The halls were winding. You knew going up only trapped you, but you would not go up to the top floor. You would find a place on the third. If only the wood floors were not so goddamn creaky! You would be able to conceal yourself easier.

Any bedroom was as good as any and you bolted into one and into its bathroom.

Breathing shakily, you crouched in the tub, holding your knees close to your body. The curtain was mostly closed but there was still visibility. Luckily, the window was over the sink and the light from the moon would not cause your silhouette on the curtain.

The house was quiet.

Besides your breath as you tried to calm from the running.

It was too quiet.

Until you heard a squeak on the floor below it sounded like. They were circling in. Excitement was coursing through you, your mind running through the possibilities of what they would do to you when they found you. And worried too. If you had been off your suppressants for two weeks…

Suddenly, a shadow moved across the wall near the tub and you gasped, your hand coming to your mouth. There had not been any noise, no sound of anyone even entering the bedroom. You were unsure if anyone was actually in there with you.

You kept your eyes trained on the wall where the shadow was – not a solid figure but an outline, nonetheless. Perhaps there was something outside the window… but you were three floors up.

Moving cautiously, you pulled the shower curtain back further.

Revealing an empty, dark bathroom. Your eyes scanned the room frightened.

A new shape caught your eye in the corner.

Maybe you were playing tricks on yourself. This was because tony had frightened you with telling you people had died in here.

Then the shape flexed in size.

A scream erupted and you bolted out of the tub.

Running blind, you escaped the bedroom heading for the stairs.

Strong hands gripped you around your waist, yanking you to the side.

You cried out and grasped at the door frame. Your hands were ripped away and you were at the mercy of the grasp on your waist.

“Shh,” a voice whispered in your ear as they drug you back further into the room. “No need to be afraid.”

The hair on the back of your neck rose, scenting the Alpha holding you close. Especially him, without his shirt, his bare skin touching you. You mewled involuntarily.

“That’s it, darling,” he husked, turning you around to face him, keeping a tight grasp on you.

Steve had to help! The three of you needed to get out of this house.

“There was a ghost! A demon!” you gasped out, trying to look over your shoulder but he forced you to look at him again.

“No, no,” Steve purred, burying his nose into your neck. “You’re safe, Omega.”

Your breath hitched at the title and you relented for just a moment, forgetting why you were afraid. You were safe of course. Steve could protect you.

Snapping out of your haze, you shook your head.

“No,” you protested, your fingers digging into his arms. “You don’t understand. Upstairs –”

Steve nipped at your ear and pressed you against the wall. “Come now, I can calm you down, darling.” You tried to argue but he kissed you deeply, cutting off whatever you were going to say. You began falling into it, following his lead. Against your lips, he praised, “Good girl. You’re so riled up. Let me take care of you.”

You were falling victim to your hormones. You had to stay above water.

Again, you tried, “Steve, I swear –”

He hushed you again, his hands at the bow at your back. “Quiet, Omega. I promise we’ll protect you.” He untied the bow, moving his hands to the straps at your shoulders. “You’re so beautiful. Soft. Perfect.”

You melted under his words.

“Put her on the bed, Steve,” you heard Tony state from the doorway.

Steve chuckled against your lips and said, “You really don’t like foreplay, do you Tony?”

“I like foreplay plenty. I just know how to get the girl wet.”

Steve picked you up suddenly drawing a gasp out of you. As soon as you were on the bed, Tony flipped you onto your stomach, his hand pressing down on your back to hold you in place.

You felt the fabric at your pussy rip, leaving you exposed.

A rapt smack on your ass caused you to yelp. His fingers delved between your lips and you gasped.

“Let’s present ourselves nicely, Y/N. You have such a tight, welcoming cunt. Let’s not give Cap here the wrong idea.”

Tony added another finger and your own dug into the comforter, biting your bottom lip. His thumb worked your clit and you keened, grinding gently.

SMACK.

You whined when another blow landed, grinding harder.

“Steve, you like what you see? She’s well behaved, isn’t she? Fucking perfect.”

You were empty and you looked over your shoulder, seeing Tony licking his fingers.

Steve’s fingers traced your hips, a soft exhale leaving his mouth. You mewled when his fingers brushed your pussy, playing with your wetness.

Tony cupped your chin and he cooed, “Look at that. How wanton you are, darling. I gotta say, I’ve been wanting to fill you for a while.” His thumb entered your mouth and you sucked earnestly. His pupils were blown wide, looking hungry. “You can take as many suppressants as you want but kitten, I could see right through you and your need to be fucked and taken care of was glaring.” He kissed you, his tongue slipping past your lips. Groaning, he promised, “And you’re going to get it.”

Suddenly, Steve hiked your hips up and he entered swiftly.

You cried out as he pounded, feeling his cock hit your core.

“So fucking tight,” Steve grunted, his fingers digging into your hips.

Over the noise, you heard Tony let out a laugh. “I knew she could get you to drop an f bomb, Cap.”

Turning your head, you saw Tony pleasuring himself, watching the two of you. You could not wait for him to take you too.

Your head was swimming with arousal, wanting Steve to finish inside you. You needed to make him happy, allow him pleasure. His thrusts grew ever more sporadic, his pants becoming shorter.

“Alpha,” you whined.

That was enough to send him over the edge, coating you.

Tony’s arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you up. He crawled onto the bed with you, holding you close. You gasped when his finger found your clit, stimulating you.

“Let’s get you off again, baby. Make you that much wetter for me.”

He had you crying out, his arms holding you tight as you saw stars.

Tony filled you and you cried out at the intrusion when you were still so sensitive.

“You’re going to be amazing,” he husked against your ear. “I’m going to keep you all for us. You’ll never have to work outside this house again.”

Driving himself up into you, his hand closed around your neck. You groaned against the sensation, drowning in your pleasure. Your skin was on fire, electricity shooting through you.

“Alpha. Please,” you begged.

“Beautiful, Omega,” Tony moaned, his thrusts becoming faster.

When the two of you came tumbling down again, you all but collapsed in his arms.

His hands were gentle as they repositioned you, laying you softly onto the bed. Coming down beside you on one side, Steve on the other, Tony pulled the blanket over you all.

“We have all night, babydoll.” He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your forehead. whispered in your ear, “You’re gonna love it here with us.”

You snuggled in closer to them, knowing they were going to protect you. You did not ever have to worry about being safe again.

[umathurman2]

MAFIA DOGS - 3

Synopsis: mob boss!bucky x OFC

I forgot to update for a few weeks. lol. Please read and comment and reblog and yadayada.

mafia dogs masterlist

When it came to her lofty ambitions, Ishii was ahead of herself thinking that Barnes would want to meet her at a first-class restaurant in uptown New York. Her assumptions weren’t entirely foolish, but directly mislead by the fact Barnes had called five times in the two days since they first met. Each time, she had declined to speak with him or any of his underdogs.

She arrived five minutes early, and he arrived never.

Ishii wore her Dior dress again. Stockings shaped her legs. Heels added height to a woman who was already tall enough to command the room. Her fingers touched her lips in between glances towards the door. Kishi Kiyamoto eventually took the seat opposite her boss.

“That inu will die for this,” Kishi muttered.

Ishii sipped her champagne. Under her fingers, the paper contract for the acquisition of his hotel curled. “He will kneel for me,” Ishii agreed, “He only needs some training.”

“He is your…at your disposal,” Kishi couldn’t say it so publicly, though she too had recognised the birthmark on Barnes’ chest that night, “You would think that man had more sense than this – especially since he went on and on about loving his soulmate.”

“-We cannot fault him for that. He made those claims having forgotten how to feel that emotion,” Ishii replied considerately, “Well, I think he will now see that I was right. Rivals is best.”

Kishi watched her boss again touch her lips. Two fingers sliding along the cupids bow, smearing lipstick under her fingers. A pink tongue came to touch her bottom lip. She prayed that her boss knew what she was doing, thinking of a rival and looking so seductive doing so. There was a game Kishi refused to play, even though Barnes was delighted to.

His goal had always been to stand her up on their next meeting. After meeting her, after kissing her, he knew he had to have her. A little hard-to-get was the way to a woman’s heart, especially when she was champion of that lover’s game. Still, when the night for their proposed business meeting came, the tug on his heart drove him to sit in a car outside the restaurant. He only wanted to see her reaction.

The pit in his chest tried to tell him otherwise. His cheeks were flushed watching her cross her ankles. The skin on his knuckles drew tight as he flexed his fingers. His body was alien to him. He hadn’t felt a heartbeat in years, and now it thundered in his chest. His stomach, too, was doing flips he had never known were possible. There was a heat rising in him from the toes up that warned him of the dangers of having a soulmate – Barnes, of course, found it all rather kinky.

He loved that she considered them rivals. He loved that they were; in business, at least. The invitation to tease and test her limits was too much to resist. That he watched her from a car and didn’t go to meet her in the restaurant was his insurance policy. If he were even a step closer to her, those dark eyes of hers would have had him head-over-heels in sentiment.

His right-hand woman sat in the driver’s seat beside him and watched as he was worked up by the sight of his soulmate touching her lips.

“-You should go in there and stake your claim on that table,” Natasha teased.

“Shut up,” Barnes sighed, leaning back in the car seat, “…I want nothing more than to do that.”

The red-haired woman raised one wicked brow. “She should be the one begging you to join her in bed.”

Barnes splayed his fingers out across his thigh. “No,” he objected sternly, darkly, “No – Nat, that woman in there is far greater than I deserve. I gotta earn her.”

“Hm…And you are going to piss her off until she falls for you?”

“Ain’t that how you’d win over your darling?” Barnes laughed, “My wicked, lil’ sister. This is a part of my plan – you’ll see.”

The two of them were silent once more as the restaurant door opened and shut. Kishi, in her suit, was striking in the street light. A smoky, city haze shrouded the second figure as they walked into the night. Ishii was untouchable once more, her black hair twisted up, her lipstick smudged away. Those heels, the hem of her dress teasing him with glimpses of her calves. He hadn’t been able to get the feel her legs wrapped around him out of his head for two days now.

Barnes watched her climb into her own automobile and drive off. Natasha glanced at him. “She didn’t look that bothered, boss – waiting all of ten minutes for you,” she mused, “Are you sure this is going to work?”

Barnes groaned as her car disappeared around the corner, and his stern exterior melted as he slammed a hand against the dashboard. “It’s gotta,” he vowed, with more emotion than he had felt in years, “It will.”

Of course, to say that was easier than to accomplish it. Ishii Ishimoto wasn’t easily swayed one way or the other. There were few things in this world she did bend for. A soulmate would not be one of them. Barnes was quite proud to realise that as, later the next morning, he looked over those files his men had brought him.

After the restaurant, he had ordered Natasha to drive him straight back to his most luxurious hotel, where he spent the majority of his time and kept most of his sentimental items. They had been, until a few days ago, packed in boxes in the spare penthouse room. He had not needed them. Only the weight of a pistol in his hand had felt real to him, given him some sense of purpose after the life he had led over in Germany.

In uptown New York, his hotel was the jewel of all real estate along the city’s main strips. Barnes ruled it from a desk in the penthouse suite, where in the morning, he sat in his trousers and an unbuttoned shirt. Suspenders hung around his waist. His feet were stretched out and crossed as he fingered the three pages of information his men had dug up on his soulmate

“Ishii Ishimoto,” he muttered over and over, trying to assimilate the idea of his personal saviour being that cold-hearted business woman, “…Daughter of Ito Ishimoto, head of the Bishamon Empire – hotels in Japan, two hospitals, a restaurant chain…”

There were enough paper records of Ito’s life to assure him the information was trustworthy. He had always wondered if that woman had really been responsible for establishing such a wide-reaching corporation. He turned that page down to trace her paternal roots. “…Kinamon.”

Barnes flipped the paper over in his hands. There wasn’t much on the man. “Swordsmith in Japan, but I knew that,” he muttered, “All this is speculation – didn’t that man realise we’re livin’ in a new world now? Why’s he so secretive?”

It was the door swinging open that saw him reaching for his gun. His men knew to knock. Shouts that followed the entrance warned him trouble was stirring in the halls out of his hotel. Cool metal hit his palm, but before he could lift the pistol from his desk, it was knocked from his hand by the lacquered sheath of a Kinamon sword.

A bright smile replaced his scowl. “-Soulmate.”

Ishii Ishimoto didn’t need anyone to announce her presence for her. She managed to make quite the impact on her own, as she stood there in a tight, black dress and looked down her nose at him. The morning sun through the windows hit her freckles and warmed the skin of her neck. Her hand around the hilt of her sword would haunt him tonight.

Before any more words passed between them, two men burst into the room in her wake. Barnes leant to the side as they tried to apologise for the intrusion. “Barton, it’s fine that she’s here,” he ordered flippantly, “Miss Ishimoto is to be allowed up whenever she wants.”

“Boss-?”

A stern look silenced his men. “-Leave,” he added curtly. His patience was for business and romance only, not for cocky subordinates. They had enough sense not to rebuke that, and closed the door behind them.

Barnes looked back to Ishii. “Take a seat, doll – don’t mind if I settle in while ya do your yelling.”

Ishii tilted her head. “I am not here so you can get off at the humiliation of standing up our meeting.”

“-Rather, it’s my humiliation I’d like to get off on-,”

Ishii slapped papers before him, disregarding his jokes. “Sign this so we can be done with it,” she ordered instead.

“That’s not really the dirty talk I’m used to, but I suppose…” Barnes glanced down at those papers she had put before him and grimaced, “-You serious, doll?”

Ishii set her sword on the seat opposite his desk. That was a good sign he wasn’t about to lose his head, though he didn’t much like that she thought she was in that much of a position of power. He had been too overwhelmed on their first meeting and given away just how much reverence he held for that soulmate mark. In regards to their business relationship, it wasn’t doing him much good.

The papers before him proved to him her prowess. She had successfully, and overnight, bought out the four blocks of land on every side of his downtown hotel. Impossible though the venture seemed to him, one look at her taking a seat on top of his desk convinced him otherwise.

“What use can that hotel be to you now?” Ishii asked him, “You cannot expand – and soon there will be towers taller than yours on all sides, blocking every view you paid those few million for.”

Barnes leant across the distance between them and pressed his nose against her stockinged legs. His lips kissed her calves, her knees, as his hands slipped around her ankles and separated her crossed legs.

“You’re so mean, soulmate,” he muttered.

Ishii braced her hands behind her on his desk. The contract for the buy sat under her right. “Give it up to me,” she ordered.

Barnes stood at those words, as if he had been burned. There was a fire in his eyes that warned Ishii of what she was playing with, but she still didn’t protest as his hands jerked her to the very edge of his desk. Her thighs pressed against his hips, her dress hitched up to her waist in seconds. His fingers ran along the inside of her stockings. Ishii offered her neck to him after only a second’s hesitation.

He leant down and was unable to stop himself from feeling. He had to kiss her, and did so roughly and bitingly, leaving a trail down her neck. When he came to her mouth, she turned her head and gave him access to her jaw, her cheek, her ears. Barnes kept his fingers working the outside of her panties, even as she denied him the intimacy of her lips.

“How can ya think we’re rivals?” he muttered, as he looked her over and felt his chest tighten, “How can ya want to be rivals?”

“I want your hotel,” Ishii replied, her own heart refusing to stop fluttering, “I want you to fuck me – and I do not need anything else than that.”

no taglist sorry. Just turn on post notifications considering all I post is this and like two other things during a week.

[iovetecchou]

Oblivious.

Part 1.

Oblivious Masterlist!

Pairings… Tecchou Suehiro x Reader and Jouno Saigiku x Reader

Contains… hunting dogs!reader, oblivious tecchou (and reader), suggestive themes, unrequited love (or so it seems…?)

AFAB reader, she/they pronouns used.

2,094 words.

I tried to start this series off not super smutty, but don’t worry! Chapter 2 is really spicy… I hope you all enjoy! (:

Tecchou Suehiro. He’s the strongest Hunting Dog and your superior. You had joined the infamous group only a few months ago, but the second you laid eyes on Tecchou. You were in love. I mean, who wouldn’t be? He’s lofty, captivating, and incredibly powerful. There was just one, teeny tiny flaw. He’s completely oblivious. To everything. Especially to your advances towards him.

“Hey Tecchou, after this mission would you like to grab a few drinks with me?”

“Huh? Oh sure, let me just go ask the others as well.”

Swing and miss. For the umpteenth time.

After every mission, you'd try to invite him out or to come over to your place and it's always. “I'll ask the others too.” or, “I can’t tonight, I’m watching ants in their natural habitat this evening.”

It's becoming frustrating, yes you know this is just how he is, but come on! For months you’ve tried to ask him out but with no luck. You’re becoming impatient in more ways than one. At first, it was completely innocent. You simply wanted to date him and get to know him through and through. Be a couple even. But over time it’s become…. more perverse.

For instance, when he would continue muscle training during important Hunting Dog meetings- much to Jouno’s displeasure, it was difficult to stay on task. Your eyes would wander, and eventually, you couldn’t even focus on what Tachihara was talking about. You knew it was wrong. You’re at work, you need to pay attention to the task at hand.

Rather than the way Tecchou’s muscles flex with each push-up or the way he’s faintly panting. How his back muscles contort with each movement he’s making. The way his hair sticks to his face, or how a bead of sweat rolls down the side of his neck. You can’t help but imagine what it would be like under Tecchou like this. Oh, how you wished to see his face contort in pleasure and make him do more than just pant. You wanted to have him moaning and whimpering above you, telling you how fucking good your pussy was squeezing him.

Ah, you’re in too deep. At this point, you’re not even hiding the way you haven’t taken your eyes off Tecchou since the meeting started. You can’t help but squeeze your crossed legs together while you let your imagination run wild. Mentally scolding yourself for wearing your skirt uniform today.

That is until, Jouno your other superior who just so happened to be sitting right next to you at the meeting table slammed his fist against it before scolding Tecchou, “You impotent fool! How many times do I have to tell you, no muscle training during mission briefs. Get up at once, and put a damn shirt on.” This snapped you right out of your little perverse daydreaming and you suddenly became hyperaware of your surroundings.

Fuck, did Jouno catch on? No, no, you’re just overthinking. There's no way he caught on to you practically drooling over Tecchou, I’m sure he was just paying attention to Tachihara and the next mission he was informing everyone about… right?

No, you were dead wrong.

Jouno had been listening to your heartbeat the whole time. I mean, how the fuck could he not notice the way it was practically beating out of your chest. It wasn’t hard for him to put the pieces together early on. He heard the way your heart would skip a beat every time you talked to Tecchou.

Every. Single. Time.

Countless times, Tecchou had failed to pick up on your advances. You would ask him on a date, even going as far as to invite him to your apartment- alone?! God, Tecchou was such a fool. It aggravated Jouno beyond comprehension. But for more reasons than he let on.

You see, the whole time you’ve been pining over Tecchou these past few months since your arrival onto the Hunting Dogs team, Jouno had a secret crush of his own, and the person that seemingly stole his cold, and caged heart was- well you... and you were completely oblivious.

Ironic, Jouno thought. You were doing the same thing Tecchou was doing, and you had no idea. The only person who was truly up to date with this whole predicament was Jouno himself.

You see, Jouno doesn’t fall for just anyone. Hell, he doesn’t even completely understand how he got so wrapped around your finger. Well, maybe it started when you first joined the Hunting Dogs…

It was your first day, and you forgot your hat. God, you were such an idiot! If you weren’t so anxious for your first day the night before, maybe you wouldn’t have gone to bed so late- inevitability sleeping through your alarm. You rushed out of your apartment so fast you had not realized that your head felt unusually lighter than it was supposed to, that was until it was too late, and you already arrived at the Hunting Dogs HQ.

“Hey. New girl, you’re approximately two minutes late on your first day. Are you really that eager for punishment this early on? Or are you just stupi- hey wait what are you—?!”

You panicked! You knew you were in deep shit but your body acted before your brain could catch up and before you knew it you had pulled your superior Jouno Saigiku of all people into the nearest room. Which… just so happened to be the teeny tiny coat closet. Oh, you were so done for. This was your first day and quite possibly your last.

Shit.

You placed your hand over Jouno’s mouth and you could tell he was getting angrier with each passing second. His brows were furrowed and his hand that was clasped against your own, the same one you used to pull him into this mess with you, was squeezing painfully hard around your wrist. You winced. “I’m sorry! I’m so- so sorry, Sir! Please, I'll take any punishment you deem fair for this, but please, I need your help. I forgot my hat at home, I know I’m stupid, I should have been more focused, I was just so nervous to start here and to meet all of my new coworkers," you paused, leaning further into Jouno, who’s back was pressed up against the door of the coat closet before continuing your plead,

“I was especially nervous to meet you, Sir. You see, I’ve looked up to you for as long as I can remember! You probably don’t recall this but, you saved my life before, this isn’t the first time we’ve met. It was five years ago, I had been walking home from work when all of a sudden I was dragged into an alley. This guy, he held me at gunpoint and was screaming about how he wanted me to hand over everything i had. I was so scared I completely blacked out and the man was becoming impatient with me, before I knew it there was a gunshot. It snapped me back into reality. But when I looked up, it was you. You must have been patrolling nearby and overheard the commotion but- that night you saved my life. you twisted the man's arm with so much force, that he misfired up towards the sky, so I came out unharmed. I was so relieved… and when you twisted his arm further, until this grown man was practically crying and screaming for mercy and you just laughed in his face,

I was so happy.

That fucker deserved everything you gave to him that night, and more.” Jouno's grip on your hand loosened tremendously at your words, and his furrowed brows were now turned upwards in surprise.

Do you mean to say, you weren’t repulsed by his torture, but that you actually… wanted him to do more?

He could tell by the beating of your heart that you were telling the truth and he was at a loss for words. The closet was so cramped and dark, you couldn’t find your footing and from the look on his face, you felt comfortable enough to pull your hand away from his mouth. Moving it down to his chest for support before continuing, “Sir, you’re the whole reason I even enrolled in the academy to become a Hunting Dog. I wanted to be able to protect myself, and others, if something like that were to ever happen again. I wanted to be like you Sir! So please, don’t report me to Fukuchi!”

Your hand over his chest fisted into his uniform with a pleading look on your face, not that he could see it anyways, but he knew. Jouno was very perceptive, one of his strong suits. So, of course, he knew exactly what face you were holding just based on your heartbeat, and the grip you had on his front. Fuck. This was bad for him. How is this even happening right now? He thought to himself. Before he said, “A-alright. I understand, I have a spare hat in my locker. I'll lend it to you, but don’t let this happen again. I will only warn you this once.”

Your hand that was entangled with his own just a few moments ago was now resting atop his chest as well, joining your other one. Relieved by Jouno's words and the fact that he’s just letting you off with a warning. I guess you wouldn’t have to look for a new job quite so soon. “Thank you, thank you, Sir-“ “Enough with the Sir. Just call me Jouno.” He said, giving you what you could swear was the faintest bit of a smile, it was hard to tell with how dark it was in this damn closet.

“J-Jouno thank you, i'll still accept punishment of any kind for this. I know I’m putting you through a lot of trouble right now.” Fuck. Don’t say that. Jouno's mind is still reeling. There's no way you’re serious right? Just who are you? You’ve caught his attention now, no one has ever been this… bold with him. His own heart is racing and he doesn’t know how to deal with this right now.

“No matter. I'll let the punishment slide just this once. It is your first day, after all. Now I'd like to get out of this closet immediately. The smell of Fukuchi’s coat is making me nauseous.” At his words, you immediately reach out to the doorknob. Your chest pressed impossibly close to Jouno's in the process, your breath tickled his neck. Sending little sparks up his spine when you speak next. “R-right I’m sure they’re wondering where you are by now with the new recruit, let's hurry and get that hat from your locker!”

Shit. You’re too close, you’re invading all of the senses he has. He can’t even smell Fukuchi's wretched coat any longer all he can smell is you. It's completely suffocating in the best way possible. His new favorite scent. He can feel and hear your heartbeat with how close you are and his head is spinning. But it quickly comes to an end when you manage to swing the door open. He’s snapped right back to reality, but he secretly wishes that moment hadn’t come to an end so soon.

Fuck what was he even thinking, this is childish. He needs to regain his senses and fast. “Follow me, newbie, my locker is just down this hall.” And that's when everything came crashing down. Well, at least for Jouno. Tecchou was coincidentally at his locker at the same time as Jouno and yourself. That's when your infatuation with Tecchou started. The second you laid eyes on Tecchou, Jouno knew. He could fucking hear the way your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t born yesterday, he knew the telltale signs when someone falls head over heels. He only hears it about thirty fucking times a day when he’s patrolling the city, to his own displeasure. Something bubbled up inside him when he heard you and Tecchou conversing and giggling at whatever stupid thing Tecchou uttered. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was all those months ago but now he’s fully aware of what it was then, and what it is right in this very moment.

Jealousy.

Uhh wow yeah, I had a completely different idea when I started writing this in mind. But my mind led us here so yeah! This is my first ever fic, I don’t even know how Tumblr works if I’m being honest. But I hope someone out here enjoys this! I plan to make more parts, and I'm already working on part 3 as we speak!