#you'd think the guy dressed as a duck would be all for animal rights but nah‚ he's chucking those bad boys out like pigeon food

[keeps-ache]

teeth achieved. [goes to sleep]

[palbabor-writes]

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

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

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

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

Word Count: 11,800

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

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

Mise en Place

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never seen you before.”

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

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

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

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

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

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

“He doesn’t need to pay.” 

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

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

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

******     

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

The white shine of his hair always gives him away. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

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

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

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

“What toy?” 

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

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

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

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

“Can I take a hit of that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******                

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******    

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

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

So, you hand in your written resignation. 

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

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

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

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

Then, Kamino happens. 

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

Late one evening, your phone rings. 

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

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

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

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

Now, to work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About, well, you.”

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

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

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

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

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

So, you shove him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand up,” he instructs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s worried he can’t do it. 

He’s never been alone, not like this. 

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

He needs to see this through. 

He wants to, he has to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love

[ladyvlolypop]

Better Plan

Part 1

soo, this is chapter 2, hope you guys enjoy :)

Also please keep in mind that (Y/N)/You are expected to be as a royality and you'll always be treated as such if people don't know you well

--------

You were woken up to a knocking at your rooms door. You only expected the maid so you simply said. "Come in", well it wasn't the maid but rather Loki.

Unlike you, Loki was fully dressed and in his armor already. You wore a silk white nightgown that was showing much more of your skin than that of what you'd wear normally. When you saw Loki your jaw dropped. Damn it! You thought.

As soon as he laid his eyes on you he quickly looked to his feet and then out of the window. You could even see a little blush on his pale white skin. You pulled your blanket over your shoulders and tried to cover yourself. "Uhh, well I'm sorry (Y/N) I thought you were already awake. Its almost Midday already" he started speaking slowly.

Could he make it any more embarrassing for you? It was already a disaster that you were unprepared for him and that you woke up that late.

You didn't know what to say and just sighed. Loki gave you a little side glance and his mouth formed a cheeky smirk before he turned away again. "Well I wanted to inform you that I haven't found my brother yet, I should also mention that my father has said that he'd soon step away from the throne" he said and started walking up and down your room while looking at everything laying around. Of course your room was clean since the maids take care of that but you still felt a little uncomfortable.

"Oh..well, maybe you could ask Heimdall for help, He has his eyes everywhere and I think he'd find Thor easily" You said trying to find a way to somehow make him leave the room. "Believe me, I've tried it. Heimdall said that Thor must be under some kind of cover-spell that makes him practically invisible" Loki said, it sounded a bit like he was mocking someone or as if he found it funny.

"But you'll continue searching for him..right?" you asked him hesitantly. He suddenly turned to your side and looked at you wierdly "Why do you care so much about my brother?" he asked confused. Your heart almost stopped. "Pardon?" was the only thing that you could bring out of you in this moment. "You heard me" Loki said in a serious manner, "Well.." you started, Come on (Y/N) say something "He's your brother, I thought it would be the best to also care for someone you care about" you quickly said and tried to understand his sudden change of tone.

Loki only nodded. "Well in that case we better start looking" he said a little annoyed "I'll see you in the evening" he said and rushed out of the room. You gave out a loud sigh and thrown yourself back in bed. Why did he come in my room to tell me this? Why didn't he just wait for lunch or dinner?

Your thoughts were in a little chaos and you just laid there for a while before getting up to get dressed.

---------

It was dawn and you were sitting on a bench in the royal garden. The trees were healthy, sacred and strong. All of the flowers had such beautiful colors and they had a strong and nice scent. It hald lots of animals here, deer, birds, ducks, swans, fish, squirrls and many more. You were kind of in peace in this place, it made you forget that you were in Asgard and what had happened in Fjall.

You kind of missed your own world, Fjall. Asgard was such a heavenly place but it felt a little off at times. You missed the damp air in the morning after it had rained all night, you missed the rain, the big and magical forest that was full of fairies and all kinds of mythical creatures. You missed running through the woods and finding a big clear lake, you missed the festivals and traditions you lived out every year. Those were the things that made Fjall a graceful and magical place, those were the things that made it your home.

Asgard was a place where it barely rained. The skies were either almost clear or had pretty little clouds. It barely rained here, and when it did, it was very light. Asgard didn't have those heavy pouring rains or the ugly kind of rains that brought a storm with it. Storms were also not really a thing, except Thor was very upset. But none of these things ever made the waves of water go wild.

All of these animals in the garden remind you of your pet, sadly you had to leave it in Fjall while trying to flee. You miss it dearly but you weren't allowed to bring it into the palace.

The sun was going further down and soon the sky turned into a calming dark blue with the stars shining. You closed your eyes and concentrated. You whispered a spell and the truth was revealed to you. As you opened your eyes you gasped for air and started caughing.

A maid rushed to you and asked if she could help but you only took a tissue and spit the liquid, that was suffocating you, on it. It was pitch black. You were so angry. You were so so angry.

The images of what you saw was Loki, Loki and his sick plan to overthrow Odin and kill his Brother Thor. This black Liquid came from Loki's body, it's something that feeds on the broken or evil. In his case, he was just hurt but it didn't make his actions acceptable.

You gave the maid the tissue and sighed. You went to the dinning room to confront him but you couldn't see him. Everyone was eating, including you and you could listen to Thor's friends talking about funny stories they had gone through. You ate good and noticed how Frigg was barely eating. When you had quietly asked her she dismissed it as being full already.

You finished your meal with a glass of wine and after that you had said good night to the remaining people and made yourself on your way, through the halls, to your bedroom.

If there was one nice thing about asgard, it would probably be the nice cold breeze in the night. The palace was well lit and you started to think about your day. You had also noticed that Loki and Odin weren't in the dining room for all of the time you were there.

As you were about to turn around the cornor you heard a voice, "(Y/N)!" it was Loki and he grabbed your wrist as he almost bumped into you after coming around the corner you wante to go in. You jumped and let out a reliefed sigh after you recognized that it was Loki.

"Father has passed away" Loki said in a rushed manner, "W-What? Sorry??" you said shocked. "Odin passed away" he repeated himself and your eyes fluttered in disbelief "He died?" you asked to get reassurance. Loki nodded and you analyzed his face.

He was pale, red cheeks, red eyes and a red nose. It looks like as if he had been crying. Loki noticed that you haven't reacted much to these news and took your hands into his before embracing you into a hug.

Now you've realised. Odin is gone, Loki is king now which means there's no stop that you have to marry, you have to marry. You have to marry this liar? This murderer? You have to marry this filthy man?

Your guts were filled with anxiety and it felt like your stomache turned upsight down. You felt as if you had to throw up and tears started rolling down you phase. You couldn't say anything, it seemed as if there was no air for you to breath.

"I have to go and tell mother" Loki said and started running off without looking into you phase. You leaned on a wall and put a hand over your mouth to prevent anything from coming out, wether it was your dinner or a cry.

But Thor is in Midgard... He'll get here to save you.. he has to.

--------

That night you had barely gotten any sleep, you couldn't stop pacing around your room and think about all the horrible possibilities that could happen.

You didn't want to marry Loki, not at all, no. He was the polar opposite of you. He lies, kills, he's hot headed, he has a temper, he's childish, an egoist, he's all that that you despise. Even tho his niceness during the recent months, it still hasn't changed that you can't see anything romantic with him.

After every talk with him, it would just remind you that you're doing this for your people, for peace. You didn't hate him but you just had a bad taste in your mouth whenever he wasn't in a good mood.

-------

A day or so Thor had returned and he had to fight his brother Loki. You knew this was going to happen but it wasn't your fight and you didn't have the right to interfere. So you just held back and calmed Frigg while being evacuated.

As Odin and Thor had returned to the palace you could notice how upset Thor looked. They almost immediatly started argumenting with each other but Frigg went in between them and got Thor out of the Room.

You followed Thor as he stormed into his room "Thor please wait!" you called after him but he ignored you. He slammed the door in your face and you sighed. You waited a little bit before knocking on the door and slowely entering.

You could hear him sobbing and you saw him sitting on his bed, hiding his face behind his hands. It broke you to see him like this. You sat down next to him and looked at him worriedly. He layed his hands on his knees and layed his head on your shoulder, "I killed him (Y/N)" Thor said depressed.

His face was red and he could barely keep his eyes open. "Don't say that my dear, you couldn't have done anything to prevent this, It is not your fault." you tried to comfort him and he only sighed.

"Maybe if I didn't destroy the Bifröst.." you could hear him whisper, "Maybe he then would like me and we could've-.." he continued. It was depressing to hear this. "I don't think anything would've changed. Loki was not in the right stage of mind, I hope you understand that his actions were driven by build up emotions and jealousy" You said calmingly, "What was he jealous of? We always were the same and had the same things" he answered confused.

"Well it's hard to understand when you always had the better end..I think that he thought of himself less by how Odin treated him and how Odin treated you." You said and Thor only sighed. There was a long moment of silence.

You started to think he fell asleep on your shoulder but he looked up and gave you a big hug, a hug that you gave him right back. It's the best that you could do right now.

[imagineabrighterworld]

Bittersweet Tragedies

Pt. 1 // Dead to Me

A/N: The first part of a series of writings based on Melanie Martinez songs, and my own want for Dabi interacting with a child ^^; The reader will have many more interactions with him as time goes on (and maybe even some interactions with heroes)

The vigilante Phantasma was no more. Leaving you and your little sister motherless.

You always felt cold, something you got from your father, but this cold was penetrating in a way you could only describe as being stabbed.

Over and over.

Phantasma was an outlaw, and no one missed those. They were the villains of the hero world. Someone people didn’t tend to miss, someone you werent supposed to root for. So when you returned home to your sister with the news, you knew she would only find comfort in you. No one else would mourn your mother.

For a whole night, you both lay in her bed, curled up and clinging to each other, craving a warmth you knew would never return. But after that, you knew you had to be the one to step up to the plate.

You were 23 and your sister the fragile age of six. Without you, what would she have?

"Kiko."

She lifts her head, eyes still red from hours of crying. Yukiko wipes her eyes.

"Y-Yea?"

"We're going to be okay." You assure her, placing a hand on her back. "I'm gonna call one of mommy's friends so we can get some help. Do you want to go with me?"

"But.." She sniffles. "I have school."

"Ah. Alright. Come, let's get ready for school, I'll take you." You wait for her to sit up before helping her get dressed, using a damp napkin to wipe away the trails of tears on her cheeks. Fifteen minutes later you stand outside of her school, the bell already ringing for her to get to class, your hand cold without hers to warm it.

With nothing left to do you take your mother's phone out and click on a familiar icon. A weasel.

Holding the phone to your ear, your chest lightens as the line is picked up.

"Hey Uncle Kagero, I.. I need some help."

---

Walking beside Kagero Okuta, or Giran as he prefered to be called for business purposes, made you uneasy. It wasn't him personally, in fact, he was one of your favorite people that came into your life because of your vigilante mother. No, this unease was due to the man following the two of you.

Twice was his name. He argued with himself, which unnerved you. Men in general made you nervous, especially the ones that yelled.

"Sorry about my friend here, he's going through a rough patch." Giran removes the cigar from his mouth, waving it around as he guides you through tight alleyways. "It's not his fault, he's just-"

"AN ANIMAL! Heroic! Suave! STOP THAT EH?! Amazing."

"Like that." He snorts.

You shake your head. "It's fine." In any case, you move just an inch closer to the older man.

Giran was an old friend of your mothers, someone she went to for information or for new tech. Often times she took you with her to see him, and often times he would give you whatever he had on him at the time. Ranging from lollipops to broken parts of machinery. It fascinated you as a child, seeing him pull out all sorts of items from his pockets.

Now you saw him in less of an innocent light, but you didnt hate him either. Work was work.

Speaking of.

"What kind of work were you thinking when you said you could find me a job?"

"Nothing terrible." He inhales deeply, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. "You like to dance, right?"

"More or less."

"Something like that. I know a guy who pays good money for people with quirks like yours. It'll keep you and Kiko fed."

A job that relied on your quirk.. Well, it wasn't the worst news you could have heard. And if it would keep your sister comfortable, you would do it.

The three of you stop in front of a rundown bar, the windows boarded up and it's sign hanging haphazardly to the left.

"So, why are we here?"

"To meet the gang! TO DIE! Shigaraki wants to meet you! SHUT UP!"

You turn around to look at Twice. "Shigaraki? The League of Villains guy?" You'd heard of him through the news. The attack on the USJ was still spoken of despite it being weeks ago. "I didnt realize his base would look like.. This."

The man narrows his eyes, looking ready to tear you in half before he stops and taps his foot on the floor. "It's fucked up- but give it a shot! It's cool inside! UGLY AS fuck." He ends in a small voice, hugging himself as he rushes in through the doors. You could hear him say something, presumably to the rest of the people inside.

A hand is placed against your back. You look to your right, seeing Giran look down at you before nodding towards the door.

"In you go kid."

Nodding, you step up to the now open doors and find yourself in a rather well taken care of room. It was a bar with crystal scones and furniture you werent expecting to see in a place that looked like it's outside survived a nuke.

Several people waited inside, either standing or sitting. With one look, you instantly knew who the leader was. But with another look, you couldn't help your eyes being glued to another man.

He had his head resting on crossed arms, his skin held together by staples. He was asleep, but it didnt stop you from looking at him a second more before turning to the leader.

Shigaraki.

Standing in the center of them all was a person who could turn you to ash without breaking a sweat. You would be nervous were it not for Giran's presence. You trusted him enough to know he wouldn't let you die tonight.

"So, you're the one Giran has been talking about." His voice grates against your ears. "The amplifier."

Amplification. Emotional or physical. Your quirk was.. Useful. Amplifying calm, strength, passion, happiness, nearly anything. It had its uses.

"We've already worked out the details. Should you come through on your end." He saunters forward, stopping just short of you.

From where you stood, staring up at him, trying to look past the hand covering his face, you had the from feeling that this bargain would force you to toe the line your mother had danced on for decades.

Vigilante? Or villain.

"Amplify his healing."

Shigaraki points to the now awake man covered in deep purple scars. The man's eyes burned into yours, a bright, blazing blue.

He flashes you a smirk as he moves off of the seat. Unlike Shigaraki, he stays where he is by the bar, but not too close to the alcohol lining the shelves.

You fidget nervously. "Just his healing?"

Shigaraki narrows his eyes, his fingers curling into a slow fist. "Just. Healing."

"Will it be a problem babe?" The man chuckles. "I thought we were getting someone impressive."

While his voice was pleasing to the ears, it wasn't enough to discourage your annoyance.

"It's just fine, pretty boy."

He lifts a brow, the smirk on his face widening, pulling at the staples on his face.

He opens his arms as blue flames engulf him head to toe, skin taking on a deeper hue as it begins to burn. "Give it your best shot babe."

Oh how you wanted to amplify his pain receptors. Oh how you wanted to wipe the smug expression off of his face.

But Yukiko needed you to get this job.

Your pupils dilate as you focus solely on the flaming man before you. Your body takes over as you feel the barest trace of energy radiating from him, tugging on it as you allow your quirk to latch onto him and do its work.

His expression changes ever so slightly as his skin stops it's burning and reverts back to its previous appearance. It wasn't healed fully, but it most definitely was not getting any worse.

"Interesting." Shigaraki speaks from beside you. A little too close for your liking.

You step closer to Giran who puts a hand on your shoulder. "I told you they could do it." He ducks his head slightly. "Good job kid."

Shigaraki nods absentmindedly, already mumbling plans that you already knew you wanted no part of. But you already signed away that piece of you.

Whatever he wanted you to do, you would do. For Kiko.

"Consider yourself hired." He acknowledges you after his compatriot puts out his flames, said companion now making his way to you. "Dabi will be your guard. Treat them well." Shigaraki adds, tapping Dabi on the arm with two fingers.

"Of course." Dabi stands in front of you, looking down at you with that same smug smirk. "Looks like you’re stuck with me babe."

No.

No.

You step forward, ignoring the smell of ash wafting from him. "You've got it all wrong."

He cocks a brow.

"You are stuck with me."

His grin only widens.

[jimjamthehorrorman]

"Texas Hold Em'"

(PART TWO of the "Unconditional Love" fic. In this AU, the boys are all alive, modern setting and not cannibals. Just a bunch of eccentric boys with secrets. Hope you enjoy!)

Early morning, a tinge of blue coats the walls like thick paint. You forgot to close the curtains, but this isn't your house, so how would you remember so easily? You wonder if your dog is having a good time lazying up the house with your friend who came to pupsit. But you have other things to worry about, she's in good hands.

The guest room at the boys farm was empty other than an uncomfortable old futon, some strange bone art (as you know, Nubbins and Bubba are quite the taxidermy artists) and the subtle smell of a "cinnamon clove" candle on the dresser that really ties it all together.

The sound of a rooster crowing next to the window reminds you..

"The boys are up already. Today I finally get to meet the notorious 'Chop Top'" you thought to yourself, struggling to get the heavy flannel sheets off so you can get dressed. "first day as a farmhand, that's a step up from gas station attendant."

When Drayton saw how easily you got along with the boys, he realized that you could be a good addition to the farm. Obviously you wouldn't live there full time. You've got your own home and your own life seperate from them, but something draws you there when you have free time. Actually, someone.

Stomping down the hall, you hear boots already mud clodden. Speak of the devil, he knocks at the door frame with a gentle thud. He groans in a way that almost sounds like "are you up?" You see his eye barely peak through the gap in the door.

"I'm getting dressed, Bubba!" You shout, grasping at the sheets to cover yourself. You hear the sound of his heels turning and a slight jog that turns into some thudding and stomping again. He must have been embarrassed because he turned heel, ran, stumbled and hit the lamp in the hall on his way out.

"BUBBA YOU FOOL, YOU DAMNED NEAR BROKE GRANDMA'S GOOD LAMP!"

Drayton's up.

"GODDAMNIT BOY, GO ON OUT AND GET THE TRACTOR STARTED!"

You hope to yourself he isn't like that with you. Poor Bubba.

"You about ready in there Y/N? We've got to get some work done and then we'll get breakfast made." He took a totally different tone with you. It's almost sickening that he can be so nice to you and so mean to his brothers, but you can't complain because he'll do his best to hold his tongue with you around.

"I'll be out in just a few, Drayton! I'm putting my boots on now!"

He chuckled on his way down the hall.

"Chop Top's back from the VA Hospital, so be prepared. He's crazier than any of us." You can't tell if he's joking or dead serious.

You meet Nubbins at the door.

"Hey! Hey Y/N! Bubba wants you to meet the animals and his favorite are the birds! They're so nice, really good tempered! The ducks are his favorite but I think the chickens are mine!"

"Alright! We'll go check them out together, they have to be fed anyways right?"

"Oh yeah! And they eat real good too! Hungry little things!"

He prances down the lane towards a little crooked shack, Bubba's standing outside the door putting buckets of water and feed out for the birds. He just can't stop wearing that pretty mask and suit. He knows how much you like it and you haven't seen the other mask since the day you met. He's dressed to impress and he's going to get his dress boots dirty, you just KNOW it.

The sun's come up as you were coming down the lane and Nubbins, running in his standard silly formation, makes it to the door and slams it open, letting out all the chickens to Bubba's dismay. He hadn't finished putting everything down and now he has to get his shoes muddy to get back to the other side.

He looks to Nubbins and groans loudly, putting his hand up to his masked face. Shaking his head, he walks around the muddy nasty pen and finishes his job. As soon as he sees you he perks up, running out the pen and nearly ripping his good coat on the wire fence.

"Good morning big guy! Thanks for the privacy this morning!" You laugh as you watch his cheeks redden from under the mask. "It's alright you didn't know I was changing. Anything exciting planned for this afternoon?"

He points toward the gate at the end of the midpoint in the driveway, a truck is making it's way out toward the road and you see Drayton, his mouth running like he's cursing his whole way out. His window is closed but you feel for the poor soul on the other end of the phone.

Nubbins runs up and grabs you by the shoulder. "He's going to get Chop Top from the bus station in town! They finally got him out, he's going to get him and we'll have a great time, a hell of a time!"

You've heard wild stories about this guy, and you weren't sure how to feel about him but certainly he would come to be as close to you as the other boys.

Bubba and Nubbins finish doing their jobs while you get some Alfalfa treats for the cattle out back. Who knew these hefty old things were like big dogs themselves? The one with the biggest horns you knew to be "Dolly" the longhorn named by Drayton and his favorite. You give her a couple extra treats for good measure.

It's only been about fifteen minutes since Drayton left, and based on Nubbins' watch, he wouldn't be back for another 45. Now's your chance to get even closer to Bubba. He doesn't talk much but there's a spark and he for sure likes you.

More of an action than words guy, that boy.

"Hubba Bubba, look at you all fancy!" You smile at him, he's got his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his pant legs rolled to the knee and he's slinging a 50 lb bag of cracked corn into the feeder. He looks down at you, giving you a once over before wiping corn dust off of his tie and jacket. "I'm done with my jobs if you want to go on a walk!"

Bubba giggles to himself before putting the burlap sack on the pile and walking up to you, excited to spend time with you, knowing soon you two can have a snack at the barn.

"So, do you like living on the farm?"

He nods, he loves it here with all the animals, you can tell. He scratches his chin under the mask. He must get hot wearing those all the time and shaves quite often so it must get itchy.

Walking down a hill toward the barn you pass a beaten up old shed. Getting too close to the door he grabs your hand and snags you in close to him. He's shaking his head no.

"What's wrong with the shed, Bub?"

He looks uncomfortable and points to the barn.

"Okay okay, we'll keep moving." You give him a pat on the lower back and keep walking before giving one hesitant glance back at the shed. What's in there and why is he not letting you in? Weird.

Halfway to the barn you realize you're still holding Bubba's hand. He's tangled his fingers up in yours and you feel him gently trailing his thumb around on your hand. He looks down at you every once in a while just to be sure you're comfortable. He's nervous and it's easy to tell.

You try your best to reassure him by doing the same and smiling back each time. He lets out a relieved sigh as you make it to the barn. A decrepit old metal barn from the 50s filled to the top on one side with square bales of hay and the other side a little table with five chairs and a couple of empty stalls sit. The barn is open on both sides other than the back, a torn up old screen sways back and forth in the wind, like a piece of paper held on with tape. Bubba retracts from your hand to pull down some bales with ease, stacking them into something roughly resembling a couch.

He flops down on them with only a slight rustle of the hay, obviously more comfortable than the little rusty metal ones at the table. He sits up and pats the bale beside him. You walk over and flop next to him, looking around to see that Nubbins is nowhere close by, you wrap your hand around his and lean into him. Between the heavy overalls you have on guarding you from the itchy hay and this space heater of a man, you're warm and comfy. Bubba gazes down at you and envelops you in his arms. He too is very comfortable.

---

"I think they're in the house, I couldn't really tell you!"

You hear Nubbins in the distance, it sounds like he's yelling to Drayton and Chop Top but you can't be sure.

They can't possibly be back yet unless...

Bubba's asleep. You were asleep. How long have you been out? How long have they been home? Is Nubbins covering for you?

"Well tell them if you see them before us that Chop Top and I are making lunch and they'll be too late if they don't get themselves up here!" Drayton sounded like he was content for the moment but if you didn't get to the house soon you'd be in big trouble. Footsteps trail around the back of the barn, Nubbins peaks in and whispers loudly to the both of you.

"Get yourselves together love birds! Drayton's gonna whoop my ass if you two don't get in this house soon. It'll be real bad! So hurry on up!" He blows a raspberry at the now awake Bubba who groans at the thought. You look up to see the bottom of his mask has rolled up to reveal a normal looking chin and mouth, a freshly shaven face is hidden by the mask every day and you don't get to see it so this is a glance you didn't expect. As he starts to roll down his mask, you grab his hand. He looks at you scared and worried.

"I'm not going to take it off" you smile at him and he calms, holding onto your hands. "I just want to try something and you have to tell me if you're uncomfortable okay? I won't ever try to make you uncomfortable."

Bubba nods at you, his left hand trailing up your arm, resting on the nape of your neck where he can run his fingers along your hairline. As you lean in for a kiss, he closes the gap. Your lips touch and he pulls you in closer, holding you in his arms.

Bliss. You may have been kissed before, but he was a whole other ballgame. He had never kissed before and there was a level of touch starvation that he was trying to cope with upon this embrace. He was holding you and being held by you at the same time and he was beyond happiness.

Bubba's depraved lips were soft as silk and cherry flavored as they grazed over yours, his cologne thick but not overpowering smelt of burning oak wood in a crackling fireplace. The only fire here is one of desire and soon you would both be burning. His hands crept up and down your back and hips, trailing over your hands and back to your hair. Soon enough you felt smooth shaven skin and soft pillowy lips crawling down your chin and neck, circling your shoulder. You were completely and utterly surrendered and victim to his tender embrace.

*horribly obnoxious phone ringing*

Bubba breathed hard letting you go, a sigh escaping his lips as he pulled his mask down again. You reach into your pocket and pick up the phone. Of course, Drayton was getting finicky.

"Where are you kids? Your jobs couldn't have taken that long!"

"Sorry Drayton we'll be right there!" He hung up and you could see the dissapointment in Bubba's eyes. You were dissapointed too but relieved because you weren't sure how far that could have gone. "Sorry Bubba, Drayton wants us at the house."

He grunted as he stood up, helping you up after him. He held your hand as you walked back to the house. You didn't get a snack, instead you got a whole lot of a hot take.

---

The birds squawked and cooed softly as you passed by, echoing the same calmness that filled the breeze. In that breeze came the smell of lunch: a mixture of fried eggs, bacon, fried apples, little crunchy potatoes and fresh squeezed orange juice. The taste of cherry carmex chap stick still lay thick on your lips as Bubba walked beside you.

It was going to be the best job you could ever have dreamed of.

[killjoy-3000]

A Battle of the Elements: Chapter One

AO3 Link:

Word count: 2024

Warnings: A few bad language words, I think thats it.

So this is my second official fanfiction, and I think it turned out okay? For chapter one, at least. I will try to post more chapters, but no promises, as I am a major procrastinator. Leave a comment, reblog, or a like if you enjoy!

Patton took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air. Walking through the front doors of Sandy Grove high school, he pasted on a smile. With luck, this would be the last school he ever attended. Waving at a few students that walked past, Patton started towards the front office. He had already registered in the school a few days prior, but he didn't yet have his locker combination or list of classes.

      Once he grabbed everything he needed, the cheery-looking boy found his locker and placed his things into it. Adding a few animal pun stickers to the sides of his locker, he gave a firm nod. This was his new school, and he wouldn't mess up. Not like all the other times.

      Patton stood after grabbing the things he needed for his first period. Turning around, he attempted to walk to his first class. As he sat on the floor, his things scattered around him, he realized that he had ran into someone. Looking over, he discovered that someone was a boy with dark purple hair, black eyeshadow under his eyes, and a baggie hoodie swallowing his skinny frame. 

      "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention! Let me help you! Are you alright?" Patton jumped up as he said this, ignoring the bruise he could feel forming on his arm from hitting it against the locker. Holding his hand out, the shorter boy offered to help the other.

      Flinching at the hand, the boy scooted back. "I-I'm fine." He stood, glaring at Patton. "Watch where you're going." The mysterious boy grabbed his book that he had dropped, and walked away. Patton stood in the middle of the hall, confused. He decided to brush it off, thinking that the boy was having a bad day, and began to pick up his books. 

      A few hours later, Patton found himself in his fourth period class. In his nervousness for his first day of school, he had forgotten to eat breakfast, and was counting down the minutes until lunch. He had yet to make any friends, and hadn't even talked to anyone besides the teachers and the strange boy in the hall.

      The bell rang, signaling the end of fourth period. Only one class to go until lunch , Patton thought. Then, he realized that he would have no one to sit with. Maybe I can go outside. Walking into the classroom, he sat down in his assigned seat. This was the first class that had assigned seating, but Patton wasn't complaining. It just meant that people would actually sit near him.

    Looking around, he examined the people sitting around him. To his left, there was a serious looking student who wore a tie and glasses. His black hair was gelled back, and there wasn't anything out of place on his body. It was kind of scary how neat and tidy this guy looked. 

    Glancing to his right, Patton did a double take. The guy he had run into earlier was scrolling through his phone, not taking notice of anything around him. He didn't look very happy to be there, and his fingers kept tapping the desk and fiddling with his hoodie as he held his phone. He looked anxious about something, though Patton didn't know what.

    Finally, Patton glanced behind him, and saw a guy dressed in a white shirt with a little golden crown on it and blue jeans. His hair was gelled back as well, but it was in a messier fashion than the tidy guy. He was laughing at something his friend had said, and looked like a fairly popular dude. Maybe Patton could become friends with him? 

    As the class went on, Patton tried to initiate a conversation with the other students. He got scolded by the teacher once or twice, but no one seemed eager to talk to him. The bell rang for lunch, and he hadn't gotten anywhere. Resigning himself to his fate, he walked to his locker and put away his things, grabbing some lunch money. He would just sit outside and eat alone.

    Virgil sat in the bleachers, taking no notice of anything around him. It was late October, and he, loving the weather, often ate outside. He ate outside the rest of the year too, but he enjoyed it more this time of year. People didn't tend to be very nice to the dude wearing all black sitting in the back of the classroom, so he didn't bother trying to eat in the cafeteria.

    As he ate his sandwich, the boy watched a short, curly haired kid walk outside, lunchbox in hand. Upon closer inspection, Virgil realized it was the boy he had knocked over earlier in the hall. He looked pretty happy, and skipped over to the bleachers. Cursing, Virgil ducked inside of his hood, hoping the boy wouldn't recognize him. The universe didn't seem too keen on listening though, because as the boy looked up and saw Virgil, his smile got even wider. 

    "Hey! You're the kid from my English class! And the one I bumped into in the hall!" Rushing up the steps, the blue-eyed boy smiled at Virgil, and raised a hand as a greeting. "I'm Patton, nice to meet you. Officially, anyway. Sorry for knocking you down in the hallway earlier, I wasn't paying attention. You weren't hurt, were you?"

    Virgil raised his eyebrow, genuine confusion written on his face. Patton was… apologizing? For something that wasn't his fault? Realizing that he'd better say something, as it had been a few seconds, and Patton had asked a question, Virgil gave a small wave. "Uh, I'm Virgil. And I'm fine. Sorry I snapped at you earlier, I'm, ah, not much of a morning person."

    Patton shrugged, his smile somehow getting even wider. "No harm done." Seemingly pondering something, he paused. "So, uh, why aren't you inside? Do you not have anyone to sit with?" He looked sad at this, as though Virgil's loneliness was the worst thing in his life at the moment. 

    Virgil considered the questions, and shook his head. "It's not that I don't have anyone to sit with, it's that I don't have anyone I want to sit with." He shrugged, showing that it was no big deal, and returned to eating his lunch. "What about you? You seem, uh, friendly. Has no one invited you to sit with them yet?"

    At that remark, Patton seemed to deflate a bit. "Well, not exactly. Everyone looks like they already have their friend groups, and I wouldn't want to intrude." He sat down, and picked at the weird mush on his plate that resembled mashed potatoes. After a few seconds, he blinked, and looked up. "Do you have a friend group, Virgil?"

    Virgil stared at Patton for a moment. "Wh- Of course I do! What's that supposed to mean? They're just… preoccupied right now. They like to sit inside, and I don't. That's all." He looked away, staring at the school. While part of what he'd said was true, it wasn't the entire story. Remus and Dee were more popular than him, so even though they liked to hang out with Virgil, they didn't tend to eat outside with him very often. 

    After a few minutes of silent eating, Patton seemed to grow uncomfortable at the lack of conversation, and spoke up. "So, um, what's Sandy Grove like? I just moved here with my mom and grandmother, but I don't know much about it." He picked at the sleeves of his sweater, and bit his lip, as if asking Virgil these questions would harm either of them. 

    "It's a fairly boring town. We've got one store, an old, broken movie theater, and a cafe with cockroaches. There're 200 kids at the high school, and 300 at the elementary, which has grades K-8. There's nothing to do, nothing to see, and, quite frankly, I have no idea why you'd move here." Throwing his trash into his lunch sack, Virgil stood, and prepared to go inside. 

    "So have you lived here your whole life?" Asked Patton, still trying to make conversation. Giving a small nod, the darkly-dressed student began to walk inside. The other followed, rushing to keep up with Virgil's long strides. As they walked inside the building, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.

    The bell rang, and Logan gathered his books up for his next class. He had spent his lunch period in the library, as he usually does, and was now prepared for his Calculus test in his seventh period. He was walking through the halls, making his way to his sixth period, when he hit something. That something appeared to be a short boy with round glasses, curly blond hair, and freckles. 

    As the shorter boy fell, Logan grabbed his arm, stopping his descent. He stumbled over his feet, but managed to catch the other. They stood there for a few seconds, each of their eyes wide, until Logan came to his senses and straightened up. He let go of the small boys hand, and grabbed the books that fell to the floor. 

    "Are you alright?" He asked in a calm voice, though his heart was racing. He felt bad, as he hadn't even noticed the boy in front of him until they had almost fallen on each other. The other nodded, taking his books from Logan's hands gratefully. "Thanks," said the freckled student quietly. "Sorry for running into you."

    He looked ... scared. Almost as if he thought Logan were going to yell at him. "It's fine. No one got hurt. Just watch where you are going next time." He told the boy, looking over him once more to make sure he was okay. When the boy nodded his understanding, Logan turned away to walk to his class. Unbeknownst to him, the short boy watched him leave, awe written all over his face. 

    For the rest of the day, Logan questioned why the boy he had run into looked so fearful and timid. Surely he hadn't looked that mean, had he? While people told him all the time he had a "resting bitch face", he didn't ever think it was that mean looking. Maybe he should work on softening it, so as not to scare anyone else. 

    Later that day, when Logan arrived at his house, he began on a project due in a few weeks. Better to get a head start than to never start at all. After working on it for around an hour, he got out his planner and looked over it, checking to make sure he had done everything he needed to that day. When it seemed like he was ahead on all of his assignments, he slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

    The stars on his walls and ceiling had been there since Logan was in fourth grade. His best friend at the time had helped him stick the small, glowing stars everywhere they could think of, and even now, seven years later, they all remained unmoved. His father thought they were foolish decorations, but he couldn't bring himself to get rid of them. They represented a large part of his childhood, and he would sooner get a B on an assignment than trash them. 

    It was funny, he supposed, that he loved space. The sky full of stars and far away planets was one of Logan's greatest passions. He had even considered becoming an astronaut when he was younger, but he knew it would never happen. As terrified of heights as he was, even thinking of going up there, thousands of miles above the ground, made him feel physically sick. 

    He got up and walked out of his room, careful to be quiet. It was around nine p.m., and his father didn't like him to be outside after it got dark. Stepping carefully, Logan made his way through the large, empty house, and finally arrived outside. He went over to his favorite spot in the large yard, and lay down, letting the feeling of the grass and the cool night air wash over him.