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character tag
hidden away | jax comes to your room to find out why you've been isolating yourself, hurt/comfort. 2.4k wc
when jax is in love | a confession feating jax’s mental breakdown, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort. 1.9k wc
the bar | when you arrive at zooble’s bar, you can't seem to keep your eyes off jax, and jax might as well be drooling at the sight of you, so you fuck in the bathroom, smut. 2k wc
jax’s confession | jax realizes he wants you to be his side, and wants to take you somewhere to be alone so he can tell you, fluff. 1.2k
bonding experience | you and jax hate each other, after months of bickering zooble votes the two of you should go on a solo adventure until you can get along, smut. 4.3k
could jax be out flirted? 209 wc
jax x food allergy!reader 249 wc
jax character analysis, headcanons and theories, including human!jax appearance. 914 wc
more headcanons! 260 wc
jax’s panic attack | you walk into the bathroom and find him, you use him through it, hurt/comfort. 915 wc
being jax’s friend before ribbit, hurt/no comfort. 185 wc
thigh riding, smut. 676 wc.
your first time, during a usual makeout session jax tries to escalate, you tell him you're a virgin and he helps you through your first time, smut. 1.3k wc
jax + having his girl be disrespected, general. 219 wc.
jax calling out ribbit’s name during sex. 378 wc
part two ↑
jax gets scared when you ask about being more than friends with benefits. 380 wc
convincing jax to go to a bar with you 440 wc
trust issues 333 wc
jax + sleepwalking into your room. 206 wc
jax + reader who is on their period hc 112 wc
blowjob 207 wc
anotha one ↑ 326 wc
snowed in 679 wc
smoking w jax 489 wc
getting through to him. 583 wc
domestic jax 81 wc
one bed trope 1.1k wc
wine drunk + kissing 205 wc
face sitting (half ass blurb) 216 wc
“i've never seen someone so soaked before. It's kind of pathetic, babe.” 271 wc
fourth orgasm 345 wc
“that’s it. you're taking me so well.” 256 wc
scratching | jax notices you scratching yourself while zoning out, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort. tw sh 515 wc
overstimming jax 157 wc
bouncing his leg between your thighs 219 wc
when everyyone is at the bar but this time it's tipsy chatting time and jax learns you like praise
jax loves your mouth.
domestic showering.
clingy morning cuddles
finding each other post circus
we don't have to dance
first kiss crushing!jax
overwhelmed with need
reader with a big cartoon hammer
hideaways | synopsis : because of the toxic relationship you have with jax, when you discover you're pregnant you don't tell him. instead you break up with him and leave town. after staying gone for four years, your mom decides to invite jax and force you to tell him the truth.
❥ coworker!au ; tag
shift at spudsy's | after a closing shift, you and jax get closer than ever, smut. 3.5k wc
coworker!jax, general 297 wc
coworker!jax’s place, fluff 183 wc
territorial rabbit | coworker!jax gets jealous after a customer flirts with you, fluff, suggestive. 1.1k wc
coworker!jax helping you out, fluff. 334 wc
coworker!jax + remote control vibrator, smut. 344 wc
coworker!jax finding out you're faking orgasms, smut. 154 wc
coworker!jax + jealousy, suggestive. 356 wc
drunk call, angst/fluff. 495 wc
+ part two 475 wc
too close for comfort, angst. 342 wc
first date, fluff. 554 wc
jax convinces you to do something for your birthday, fluff? angst?
❥ porcelain doll!reader ; tag (closed.)
concept : jax x porcelain doll!reader 136 wc
boyfriend privileges | jax has become very protective of you, but you're not official, fluff/suggestive 638 wc
[ask] chronic illness mention, how would jax act with reader when they get out of the circus 335 wc
zooble’s revenge | jax proudly boasts about keeping you from breaking but refuses to leave gangle alone. with jax still constantly breaking her mask, zooble decides he needs to know what it feels like to have his partner messed with, hurt/comfort, angst. 2.1k wc
no girl's toy | you beg jax to do the song and dance that ragatha once taught him, fluff. 395 wc
[ask] jax and reader during the softball game. 463 wc.
some facts about reader and minor backstory 297 wc
jax has a nightmare and has to remind himself you're not going to abstract 321 wc
Summary: The Reader is a Mermaid and witnessed a shipwreck. She becomes interested in human life—particularly one human: Boromir.
She lifted her head from the man’s form and bit her lip as a strange guilt flooded through her heart. Despite her relief, apprehension crept into her mind as she dreaded the potential consequences from the gods—and her father. She understood deep down that she should not have intervened. Just coming to the surface was bad enough. But this? Saving a man? Surely that was an extreme that shouldn’t have been trifled with. The mere glimpse of her tail, by even a single human, would forever rekindle the forgotten war between the races. It would seal the fate of the merfolk, burying them in their ocean.
Disclaimer: Any mythology relating to the mermaids of middle earth is not canon. also I tried my best with arda water/river geography plz don’t come at me—it’s not one of my finer subjects :/
Status: complete
Total Word Count: 23k
Warnings: depression, drowning, ptsd, alcoholism, angst, comfort, fluff, stalking (idk how to make that last one sound less creepy. you’re just gonna have to read it), physical assault, creepy men that gets what’s coming to them, shirtless boromir
summary : Commercial alliances between Lindon and Mirkwood had always been common; and so was the dignified contempt both of their heir held towards each other. You thought of Mirkwood’s prince with a distinguished loathing regarding his arrogance and conceited personality, and he thought no different of you. It had never been a problem. But that was before there was mentions of reinforcing the bond between the two kingdoms with a strategic union. And not just any union: an heir wedding.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
⤷ enemies to partners to lovers
⤷ slow burn
content warning : blood, panic attacks, injuries, minor character death, forced mariage, angst, trauma, slow burn, slight smut, bits of political scheming, follows tolkien’s storyline (to an extent), distortion of the original timeline for plot purposes; let me know if i missed anything!
[ nsfw ] - post-apocalyptic au (mentions of guns, blood, war, fighting for survival) ; probably ooc bakugou because of the setting ; implied/minor shinsou x reader ; smut (18+) (may or may not be exposing my spit kink with this one LOL)
[ word count ] - 7.5k
"y'want me to do it?"
it smells like copper.
when you press your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you taste blood; a preemptive warning for what's coming, what you'll spill. for some reason, the rifle feels heavier than usual today.
"c'mon, what're you waiting for?"
maybe it's because you can't see his face. seems immoral that way. maybe it's because showing your back to someone is a sign of weakness in the world now and everyone knows that; him walking backwards to the safehouse, one arm barely raised in surrender — that's trust. that you won't do exactly what you're planning to do to him.
"gonna let him knock on the front door or what?"
"would you shut up?" you hiss, snapping back to fix your watch-partner with a glare. "i'm trying to focus."
he only raises one eyebrow, lazily gesturing back out to the road where the figure is stumbling along. despite hitoshi's easy facade, you can tell there's a sincerity to his words, even more evident in the tight hand he has around his own gun. he's allowing you the time, the chance to make your own decision, but he's as much a guard to the house as you are.
holding your breath, you look back through the glass reticle and find the man again. the gun aizawa gave you is from before the war, but it'll still take a raider's head off if you aim it right, and it won't be clean about it, either. even from where you're sitting in the watch blind, you have him clear in your sights and all you have to do is rid the tension from your shoulders and ease out your breath and —
the man crumples into the dirt, and stays there. a dusty lump of skin and bone and uncertainty.
when you pull back to look at hitoshi, he ignores you, frowning at the sight. the rusted chair he's half-leaning back in creaks when it hits the floor, screeching as he scoots to its edge to better survey the road. it's been a few days since he's shaved, the skin underneath his sprouting hairs irritated from where he's been scratching.
"this is a trap if i've ever seen one."
"so what are we supposed to do?" you pull the rifle from where it'd been perched on the ledge — something that deepens hitoshi's frown; a finality. "just leave him there?"
("we can't lose our humanity," aizawa told you, both, as you all stood on the screened-in porch, watching eri make dolls from sticks and straw in the yard. it hadn't been long after you joined their encampment, and you'll never forget the way he looked at you. with trust, pleading, that you wouldn't become everything they feared. "or else we'll be no different than the damn machines.")
hitoshi finally looks at you with his heavy, withdrawn eyes, and he looks the same as he did the night he found you in that ditch, all alone and bleeding out. he could have just left you to die on some excuse about not having the room or space or resources to take on another mouth to feed, but —
frustrated, he shakes his head, chasing away his compassion and memory in staunch self-defense. "this is a trap."
it's been a few days since either of you have seen another person this far out west, even longer since raiders have come along and met their own graves. a sweeter aspect to having the safehouse on a hill: you can see anything coming for miles. it gives you all the time you need to prepare for bandits and thugs, the wayward todoroki corporation 'droids that scan this edge of the earth.
you can see anything coming, even the end. and it can see you, too.
you don't argue because his concern is rooted in truth; what little peace you've had is bound to expire. it never lasts very long. people are getting desperate, moreso than usual. aizawa predicts a fourth of the population won't make it without food and shelter and something to keep warm when the next winter hits — which isn't far off.
out on the road, the lump never moves.
"fuck it," you grunt, kicking your chair back as you stand. your rifle strap slips over your head easily, the weight of it grounding as nerves light with unease. "just—cover me."
hitoshi glares, but doesn't move to stop you. "you're explanin' this to shouta on your own."
you shuffle down the rickety ladder, jumping off as soon as you can because you hate the stupid thing. the dehydrated skeleton of a bush snaps when you clamber through it, kicking along dead limbs and branches and thorns until you reach the barren, dirt road.
once you're out in front of the blind, you give a thumbs up and you don't move until hitoshi's light flashes twice, hidden by what remains of an old pine.
even from where you're standing, you can hear the man breathing, wheezing audibly enough that your own chest tightens in response. could be from the storms and their acidic haze, or prolonged exposure to radiation that's started to eat him up from the inside; either way, you don't think it sounds like he has long.
before you can fully approach, the up-close sight of him stops you dead.
half-alive. battle-torn, much more than you expected; your mouth fills with saliva at the dried clumps of blood clinging to one side of his face, crusted over with debris and muck. his right arm is — fucked, to say the least, and he's at least lucid enough to know it, cradling it close to his body as if you're going to steal what's left of it.
only his left eye is open, probably the only one that can still make out a damn thing, and he watches you, half-lidded.
an explosion of some sort; probably set off a mine in that airfield north of here. must have walked near 50 kilometers in this direction, which would explain why he's in such a piss-poor state. rifling through his pockets produces hardly anything, save for some lint and a small folding knife — that you do take, for good measure. not once does he try to stop you (as if he even could), choosing instead to take you in the only way he can.
you sit back to check his ears, and his head moves without fight. maelleable. surrendered. his right one is hard to find, underneath the blood. "can you hear me?" unsurprisingly, you receive no response. probably can't hear a thing. "hey. can you hear me?"
but then — he blinks, twice and slow.
behind you, the nuclear glow of night begins to unravel and you can feel it nipping at your skin; cold and chemical, a fresh burn under running water. another quick flash of light means to hurry you along, but you just raise a hand to hitoshi.
"you can hear me?" your voice drops considerably, to a narrowly audible whisper. the kind you would use with a newborn, or when trying to calm a wounded animal. "blink twice."
he does.
something softens in your chest, something that's long since crusted over. you've become so used to finding the threat in everything, you've forgotten what it looks like to need help, and now it's staring you in the face. carmine and bleary and scared. you can't feel his skin beneath your gloves, but you touch the sharp curve of his brow, wiping away the grime.
"hitoshi," you call, "get the horse. and the stretcher."
aizawa doesn't say anything when you get back. no one does. not even him.
it takes effort to care for him, which you think is the lesson you're meant to learn — the hard way. after he's loaded into the house, the hands that tend to him are your own and no one else's; the water you boil for your own bath goes to him, trying to carefully wash his wounds as he watches you, unchanged; for the first two nights, you give him your rations, until you're so hungry that you have to split them.
he doesn't speak to you. doesn't make any sounds, not besides his ever-present wheeze — which you have to get used to sleeping beside. you give him your sleeping bag, though you don't mind the floor as much as you thought you would.
there are no grunts of pain, not even when you have to peel the tattered remains of his clothes from his arm, just to wrap up the gristle that's still attached to him. he'll probably lose it, if he's lucky, but you've got nowhere near that kind of medical expertise and kayama hasn't been back for a few months. longer than anyone has expected. he'll have to wait, just like everyone else.
there's — little you can actually do for him besides bandaid-ing him together, because you're so afraid of hurting him or making any and all of his situations worse that you take your time. too much maybe. pulling a shirt over his head and squeezing warm water out of a towel down his grisly body and even feeding him; you're hardly able to take care of yourself. doing it for someone else proves to be a challenge. lesson learned, though the regret never comes.
three weeks go by, before he tells you his name.
you're sharing a granola bar and a can of peaches from your own personal stash, enjoying the peace and quiet of the dining-room-turned-barracks. hizashi has been taking your watch shifts and in return you've been helping eri out in the garden, tending to the field behind the house so that you can be close, just in case.
("is he going to die?"
she's afraid of him. you can tell by the careful way she watches him, shallow little breath held whenever you help him to stand for another round of clean bandages. she rotates who she sleeps with because she doesn't have a bed of her own, and since you've given your pillow up to your half-man, she's kept her distance, both when awake and not.
"what?"
she swallowed and turned her attention down to her nails, picking at the dirt underneath them as you tossed another potato into the bucket she was holding.
"him. hitoshi said—"
"i don't care what he said." you barked, harsh and in a way you would feel guilty for later, but it made sure she didn't ask again.)
the right half of his face is completely bandaged up, making him look more mummy than man, and his eye is trained on the spoon of peaches you keep feeding him. he takes it patiently, but there's an eagerness to his bite that has you worrying he's going hungry.
he's much bigger than you; that, you could tell even before you got his clothes off. his shoulders are wide, broad, and the strength they carry couldn't have been born from anything but healthy labor. it's been a long time since you've seen someone so well-fed and it makes everyone seem smaller and more feeble in comparison, has you wondering where he could have possibly come from, before he got nearly blown to hell.
you don't care what hitoshi is saying. that he's questioning everything now.
defiantly, you think that maybe if he'd helped with the wound-washing and bandaging, he'd know how much meat and tissue and muscle lies beneath your half-man's skin. no wires or tracking chips. no metal. just human.
you can't explain why he doesn't cry or speak or even cringe, but emotion is in there, somewhere. maybe next to his hunger and his trust. the sense he has to touch you with only gentle, considerate intent.
a 'droid wouldn't do that. all of you know it, from experience.
"i have to go into town soon,"
he watches you carefully, teeth clicking against your spoon when he closes his mouth around it. food gets shoved into the left side of his cheeks on instinct and it reminds you of some rodent you're sure doesn't exist anymore.
"i'll be gone a few days, but i have enough food squared away that no one should bother you." even if they don't want him here, you know the rest of the house won't put him out, not with you gone — but still; you want to take care of the only tension they could have with him. "i'll leave you my pack if it will—"
"i have to go to kamino."
stunned, you look up at him, spoon midway between the two of you. your half-man stares back, blinking as if he's just woken up from a long and fitful sleep.
"you can talk?"
"yes." his brow furrows, as if your question is irrelevant or maybe stupid. "i have to go to kamino."
"uh," now you blink, trying to picture a map in your mind. the miles stretch on the further you think about it. "i don't think you'll get very far with the state your in."
he nods, suddenly grim, and goes quiet. retreats to a place that's not here, with you, as his eye glazes over and sticks to the floor. you feed yourself a peach in an attempt to sweeten the sour feeling that bubbles up inside you.
you wait as long as you can before speaking again, until you can't take it. "you'll be moving on, then?"
he turns his head, focuses more on your face with his one eye and — you get the feeling it's the first time he's ever looked at you, really. which you know is stupid because he's done nothing but watch you, but now: alive and aware, he catalogues your face, the dip of your shoulder, a stray scar that's jagged across your collarbone.
assigning it to memory, maybe.
"yes. when i'm better."
you shrug, and try to keep your mouth from curling down like it wants to. "might be a while."
"someone's waiting for me."
it makes you feel bitter, though it shouldn't. as if he's throwing all you've done for him in your face even though he's not.
you feel — overwhelmingly embarrassed at yourself, but it doesn't stop the burn that builds in your waterline.
people are so scarce these days, an endangered species. finding one to tuck into a worn sleeping bag, to rinse the dirt from their hair and help them with their clothes, to become reliant on the white-nose sound of their wheeze — it happened too easily. lesson learned.
your half-man shuffles in front of you, nodding back at to the granola until you're feeding him again. a spell has been broken now, and because he's talked and shown plans to leave, you think he should maybe be feeding himself. but what the hell.
cheek full, he asks, "you know where kamino is?"
again, you picture the map in your mind, frowning at the distance. "it's not close."
"can you take me there?"
you shake your head; whiplash. two days ago, he couldn't stand on his own and now he's trying to lead an expedition half-way across the country. briefly, you picture it: him and you, snaking down the beaten path, avoiding the highways and finding old 100-yen shops to sleep in. using the aisle shelves like a bunk-bed, him on the bottom. wheezing until you're lulled to sleep.
when you look back at him, he's frowning. "i-what? me?"
again he makes that face: furrowed brow, mouth slanted like he can't comprehend your question — or why you've asked it.
"i can't just," you glance back, checking the room for open ears. "i can't just leave them."
"why not?"
"because," now you frown. "they've — been good to me and i don't want to abandon them." you close your eyes and you're in the dark again, being eaten up by ants and the dry, nuclear heat of summer. left to die, all alone. "they saved me."
it's silent for a long time, his voice echoing in your ears now that you've heard it. when you blink back into the here and now, he's just staring down at the floor again, already gone.
"besides," you continue, more eager to hear him speak than you're willing to admit. "i don't even know who you are."
"bakugou katsuki," he murmurs, automatic. his eye flicks to you and — you think it could be glowing, in the low light. carmine, like the burn of a fire. "my name is bakugou katsuki."
you and hitoshi find treasure in a nearly ran-sacked pharmacy; enough antibiotics to last a while, maybe longer if everyone is careful enough to avoid scrapes and burns and scratches. there's a tub of vaseline and a dented can of coffee grounds, something that aizawa will be ecstatic about, even if he doesn't have a half-decent way to use them.
it takes a day and a half to get into town because you only travel at night, and you spend a chilly evening under a crumbling overpass, housed in the rubble. shinsou even shares his beans. all around a win-win, in your book.
it's not until you're on the way back that disaster strikes.
you get comfortable, pig-headed from the weight of the haul on your back, and you cut across a desolate highway in an attempt to shorten the trip. both of you are too eager to get back and share your spoils, and it makes you careless.
hitoshi is in the middle of probing you about bakugou, when aqua lights flash off the failing frame of an old house.
"'m jus' sayin'," he grunts, shrugging. "he's pretty weird, don't you think?"
you don't want to answer him, but his question is so childish that you can't help it. "so are you, but i'm not judgin', am i?"
even in the dark, his wide smile is obvious, and he opens his mouth to retort something that will surely infuriate you when it seems as if the whole sky lights up. you know it doesn't really, but the neighborhood has been nothing but the skeleton of the world before, and to see the light after only traveling in the dark almost has you blinded.
hitoshi grabs you by the arm and you're being dragged through the dirt before you have time to blink. he doesn't have to tell you to keep quiet; you hold your breath, mouth open, tasting only the salt from his palm and your own fear.
the night-cover is meant to protect from raiders and feral animals.
aizawa says that the 'droids are heat-seeking.
aizawa says, "there's no hiding from them."
you're both bent awkwardly behind a mound of rusted scrap metal and old rubber, legs and back folded to better blend in, though you have no idea if you even will, and the light flashes like a heartbeat in the distance. a block or two down, you think, if you're as good with distance as you think you are, and you track the echo of it underneath the remaining war-haze that blocks the stars.
not even a thought crosses your mind as it trails across the horizon, getting further and further away until it stops completely. and then fear sets in like a cold sweat.
during what few run-ins you've had with the todoroki 'droids, they've never just — gone away; they have to be dismantled, head pried from their shoulders. a thick piece of some kind of metal you've never known the name of sits at the base of their skull, soldered beneath their fake, translucent skin, and getting it off is a bitch and a half.
but if you don't, it won't stop. ever.
you have to get out of here, far away before it gets closer and hears the rapid drum of your heart, but — should you run? no doubt it'll hear your footsteps across the ground, every breath that rushes from your lungs, and it'll reach you way before you can get —
hitoshi moves his hand from your mouth and your eyes flick up to his, the direction he points to — south, back to the safehouse — but it's hard to move your limbs from where they've frozen over with cold fear. your hands are shaking, shoulders, too, but you slowly push yourself to your feet, crouching close to him.
he doesn't say anything, and he won't; you've just got to trust him.
it's been so long since you've encountered one. since you've even seen one this far out. you're half a day from the house, but that's still close, in the grand scheme of things. dangerously, your mind dips into dread, imagining the copper smell of your encampment, if they've been found first.
you can't go there. not now.
hitoshi takes low, careful steps away from the corroded junk metal, crossing from dead tree to dead tree as softly as he can, and you follow even as tears well up in your eyes.
all you can see is eri's little face. the last thing you said to her. how shouta gripped hitoshi's shoulders, murmuring something meant for only him.
how bakugou looked, forlorn, on the inside of the porch screen as you headed off into the night.
you can't go there. not now.
walking so close to the ground strains the muscles in your calves and they burn, full of fire and tension, but you trail him as long as you can, for what feels like hours before you're finally out of the neighborhood and back on the barely-trodden trail. it's not until you can stand that you finally breathe — or at least, that's how it feels, with how tightly your lungs have shriveled — and shinsou turns to stare at you, wide-eyed.
"what the fuck!" he whispers, harsh, before pointing to where you've come. "what the fuck!"
"i know!"
"no, not 'you know', this isn't a fucking coincidence!"
all your fear crescendos, crumbles into fury. "what?" you snap back from him as if he's slapped you, teeth bared, feral.
"he's a goddamn infiltrator!" no names need to be said in order for the message to get across. "another fucking hunk of tin!"
"you don't know anything," you say it for nothing, because he won't stop talking over you. "i've had his blood all over my fucking hands, hitoshi! his arm is nothing but a wad of meat and bone, and you'd know that if you—"
"hello."
hitoshi spins around before your argument finishes settling on the air, placing himself between you and the half-crouched figure watching you from the tree line. hands raised in surrender. just like bakugou.
in no time, the both of you have your rifles loaded, staring down the reticle with the stranger's head in your sights.
"i'm alone," the man says, and you see a flash of white hair as he fully stands. the first thing you notice about him, is how immaculate he seems. untouched by the wasteland. "i just need some help."
"back off," shinsou barks, bumping into you as he takes a step backward, urging you to do the same. "turn around and forget you ever saw us."
"i just need some help." he says again — but his eyes glow blue in the shadows, hands clicking beneath his fleshy exterior, and then before you know it, an alarm screams, ringing so high in pitch that you're forced to drop your gun and cover your ears.
it doesn't last long; hitoshi manages to fire his rifle, clipping off half of its head just as it lunges for the both of you. it stumbles to the ground, sparking and zapping as it repeats "i just need some help, i just need some help," over and over and over, until hitoshi is firing down on it again, right at the height of its neck.
the world goes so silent, it hurts; you can feel a deep and thrumming pain in your ear canal, and when you pull your hands from your head, they're wet and dark in the hazy night glow. hitoshi tries to say something, but it's muffled, and then he's pushing you along in the night until you're both sprinting. running as fast and as far as your body will carry you.
it's day, when you reach the house.
aizawa doesn't care half as much about the coffee as he does about the noise you've made, that they heard all the way out here. he toys with his eye-patch, headache apparent on him as he rubs at the vein protruding in his forehead.
he's not mad at you, he says, but you'll have to be on the lookout. for what's sure to come, in the following days. boarding up the house, starting the generators around the property, just for the extra heat and distraction. you'll have to take longer watch-shifts, all of you. even eri.
day-old blood trickles down your shoulders and into the tub, when you dump a bucket of water over your head. it's the first thing you do — try and wash the excursion from your skin — and even though the water is warm and fresh-boiled, you can't stop shivering. digging your fingers into your arms as you hug yourself, head throbbing.
maybe it's because you haven't slept that you still feel like you're in that neighborhood, holding your breath as the neon warning flashes. if you close your eyes, it breathes behind your lids, white-hot and blinding. and your ears —
you barely register the door creaking, eyes snapping open as bakugou peeks his head in.
a fucking infiltrator.
your jaw loses tension as soon as it finds it, has you wincing from the ache, and you close your eyes and turn away from him. he should be able to take the hint. if he's human, then he'll understand how badly you want to be left alone. how badly you need to weigh your options, as the end looms over you all.
something buzzes in your ear, and when you turn to look back at him, he's sitting on the edge of the tub, staring down at the cloudy water.
"what?"
his eye snaps up to your own. aizawa's loaned an eye-patch to him and all his head wrappings are gone, leaving him to look, truly, like a half-man; scar and tissue and pink, with all his tenderness.
another fucking hunk of tin.
("you have to destroy they back of their neck. you have to, eri, do you hear me?"
she looked so young, so tiny, with a gun in her hands.
"they're all connected, and they can all track each other. one after another, they'll keep coming.")
you miss what bakugou says to you again and you shift, angling your head before shaking it.
"can you hear me?" he repeats, and you read the soft words against his lips. "blink twice if you can hear me."
and you do, slowly, leaving them closed as they burn with unshed, nuclear-hot tears.
it makes you jump, when his finger lightly touches your forehead, near your brow, and he watches with simple interest as water droplets collect on his skin. he trails lower, just under your ear, and then his brow furrows. that red gleam returns to his eye, like he's just waking up again.
"y'r bleedin'."
"not anymore," you can feel yourself talking too loud. "it's — fine." you mean for him to move his hand away, but he doesn't. and you don't make him.
instead it goes to your hair, where it's down and plastered against your skin, and he very carefully tucks it behind your ear before angling your head, as if he can see the damage better. he leans close, eye intent on where his skin meets yours.
and you can't take it anymore, as the tears finally run over your cheeks. "what the fuck are you?"
bakugou is half through a wheeze when you ask, and he stutters and coughs and — you just don't know. you can't fucking tell.
how human he seems. how gentle he can be.
how different he is.
"what?" he rasps, signature confusion decorating his half-face. "what the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"i'll tell them," you seethe, though you don't mean word of it. "if you don't tell the truth right now, then i'll tell them what you are." a bitter laugh huffs out of you and his eyes narrow, annoyed almost. "who am i kidding? they probably already know and are just waiting to take your ass out. as soon as i give the word."
"i don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about."
"don't fucking lie to me," the words are lost to your ears, echoing somewhere in your skull — and even then, you can tell how desperate they sound. his eye tracks a fat, hot tear that slips from your own. "please don't lie."
bakugou doesn't answer, just frowns at your cheeks, and then he moves his hand to stroke the fat of them, gently. as always. he collects the tear on his finger and inspects it carefully, closely, before tasting it with the pink tip of his tongue; you and all your salt.
when he fixes his eye on you — so bright and red and alive — you lurch forward in the water, grabbing his face in your hands before yanking his mouth down to your own.
he grunts, loud and surprised, and he's hardly able to catch himself, hand going flat against the ceramic between your legs. you breathe him in deep through your nose: the subtly sweet scent of his sweat, the bitter fall air that's clinging to his soft skin — decayed leaves and earth and stratosphere, something foriegn and strangely clean.
your lips part his and your tongue slips into his mouth and he gasps lowly, sliding his hand in the water closer to you, moving in to press back against you with just as much hunger. it fans the flames to life in your belly and you drag him further into the water, until he has no choice but to fall in, knee thudding against the tub as he lets out a quiet "ow" against your lips.
you don't care — don't know how or what to care about — and you pull back from him to yank at the bottom of his shirt, stretching it out until he's able to slip it off his head, around the bandaged remnant of his arm with a little more concern; funny, how it's always him that's being careful.
in a world like this one, maybe that really does make him the outlier. maybe that really does mean he's something inhuman.
the thought threatens to make you sick and your lips tremble, scooting closer to hug your face into his warm, toned body as he struggles with the button on his pants. they're soaked and sticking to him and he gives up half-way through, instead moving to cup the back of your head so he can kiss you again. you note that he still tastes like peaches, just as saccharine.
you help him out of his worn jeans — which really is a struggle, thanks to you and your forcefulness — and you try not to be so obvious in your inspection of his dick. on a handful of occasions, you and hitoshi have fooled around and it's always been just like this: desperate. the need to feel skin on skin. to know that you're still alive.
when you wrap a hand around him, he sucks in a breath and groans into your mouth, pressing you back against the tub so he can hike your legs up around his hips. your not as ready as you could be, but you don't even care about that right now; you wet your fingers with your tongue even though you're half in the water and circle the swollen tip of him, watching the lip he digs his teeth into, his eyes as they lid as if he really feels it.
and you want him to really feel it.
the burn is good. the burn is what you want, though the quiet "fuck" he gasps into your ear has you shuddering. bakugou places a clumsy kiss on your cheek, where your tears have dried, and you want to hate him. for what he may be. for how soft he feels, as the water sloshes out onto the floor with every slow grind of his hips.
you want him to fuck you until the ringing is finally gone from your ears — but instead he's careful like he wants this to last, and it only cements something deep in your weary chest, something you might never get out.
his tongue drags across your lower lip until you open your mouth for him and he kisses you deep and messy and wet, so that a thin line of saliva connects you two when he pulls back, and the sight has his hips snapping a little harder. he watches you so intently, hooked on the drop of your mouth, when you tilt your head back to gasp at the ceiling.
"fuck," he hisses again, leaning in to lick a hot stripe up your throat. "y-y'r so—"
you want him to shut up and stop making your heart thunder in your ears, so you press your lips back to his, even if the two of you are just gasping and groaning into one another. there's never been enough time or privacy for anything sentimental and everything between you and shinsou has been quick and wordless, something the two of you hardly acknowledge outside of the moments you need one another.
but this is entirely unfamilair; you can feel yourself growing impatient, a hot desire coiling at the base of your spine as you slip down a little more against the ceramic, to angle your hips up so he can fuck into you hard enough to bring new tears to your eyes. your fingers scrape against the bottom of the tub and he squeezes his eye shut, muffling a long moan into the skin of his shoulder when you clench around him.
his cheeks are warm, you realize, red in the crappy light filtering through the foggy window. flushed, burning with all his blood, and you reach a wet hand up to trace his face, just as he had yours. the action makes him slow, and he angles his head into your palm like a cat, nosing at your dripping fingertips until a small laugh huffs from your nose. bakugou watches you quietly, though a smile ghosts the edge of his lips.
the first one of his you've ever seen.
gently, you slip your fingers under the strap of his eye-patch and he tilts his head so you can pull it loose and —
you don't know what you're expecting: another neon bulb, just like the aqua glow that had tracked you in the dark or maybe a dim light, powered by batteries and wires and his mechanical heart; instead you just find an eye, human and destroyed. cloudy, like the sun behind a post-war haze.
"c'mere," you murmur to him, slipping your ankles up to his shoulders as he thrusts into you shallowly once, stuttering through his breath as he sinks all the way in. you wait until his shoulders are trembling, until you're barely able to speak with the whine in your voice. "i'll—go with you—to kamino."
bakugou nods once, eye so full of something warm and soft and human before he kisses you, punctuating each press of his lips with a harsh rut of his hips. he moves his hand to the edge of the tub, gripping the ceramic so tightly that it creaks before his pace increases, as he drives you closer and closer to the end. one you welcome.
you wrap an arm around his neck and dig your nails into his skin and whisper into his ear, encouraging him; "fuck, yes, katsuki, right—oh—" and he shudders, hardly able to steady himself through your orgasm before his own hits him, has him pulling out late to cum on your half-submerged stomach.
he groans lightly and slumps down onto you, devolving into another lazy, messy kiss as his fingers tangle into your hair. lips sliding against your own, just because, like he can't get enough of it.
bright, aware, alive, he quietly murmurs into the heavy, damp space between you, "don't abandon me."
and you fear that you couldn't even if you tried.
two days trail by in charged silence.
eyes are open at all times in the house, ears, too, as the quite invites itself into every nook and cranny. at times you catch even bakugou holding his breath, muting his still lingering wheeze; it's not getting any better, and you hate to think of what that means, but it's not getting any worse, either, and so you take that for what it is.
he becomes — touchy, obviously so. always feeling you in some way; fingers trailing up the inside of your arm or tucking strays behind your ear, thumbing your lobe gently, as if he's afraid to worsen the damage you're still healing from. you share the sleeping bag and he sleeps with his nose in your hair, breath against the nape of your neck.
sometimes he lays with his head on your chest, just listening to the drum of your heart.
hitoshi doesn't speak to you. hardly looks, with bakugou by your side — and he always is. you can't tell if he's still angry or if it's dissolved into something worse; a wound eating up his skin. the silence from him makes you feel guilty, as if there are sides now and you've picked the wrong one. betrayed him somehow.
the remorse never lasts long though, not when bakugou is following close behind you to the barn out back, sighing into your mouth and hugging your body to his, tight, like he wants to breathe through you.
he's very touchy. eager, as if this is something he hasn't had before.
you suppose you haven't either. not like this.
you're coming out of (what used to be) the kitchen when you see it. brushing tangles out of your hair with your fingers, distracted by the shape of his silhouette in the front of the window.
he's peeking through the boards, always on high alert as aizawa has instructed him to be. his back is to you and you count the crescents you've left on his skin, frowning at how easily they disappear into the constellation of his scars.
now that his head wrappings have come off, you can see the new growth of his hair, what was singed off in the blast he's still never told you about. he's a little damp, just like you, fresh from the bath neither of you really took, and his skin looks extra pink and tender, soft.
and there is a little gray symbol on his scalp, faint and ruined, trying to survive among his wreckage.
maybe you gasp and that's why he turns around; you don't know because you still have a hard time hearing and you disconnect completely from your body, ears ringing like they did only nights ago.
he's without his eyepatch. it's still sitting on the counter, where he tossed it before slipping into the water, between your legs as his mouth found yours. insistent. hungry. like he knew what that even meant.
you don't say anything at first. don't even move. and you watch the recognition come to life in his eye, as his hand slowly goes to the back of his head.
carefully, he says, "it's not what it looks like."
when you don't respond, he takes a step toward you, coming up short when you retreat; a marionette of his movements. whatever is wired in him to display pain does, finally.
bakugou sighs, squeezing his eyes shut before trying again. "i'm not—"
"liar."
his expression falters. a glitch, you tell yourself.
"you're a liar." it's such a simple truth and yet it cuts so deep, all your trust blown to bits as he becomes exactly what you feared he would.
a goddamn infiltrator. another fucking hunk of tin.
you feel sick, suddenly, swollen with regret as your stomach churns. the todoroki corporation must be making them differently, attempting to blend them into what remains of the human population by weaving veins and replicating tissue and sculpting muscle and —
"it's not what you think."
what even spills out of him, when he cums? you've never thought to look before, too distracted by the addicting press of his lips, how he strokes your tongue with his own as if he could never get tired of it. there are only so many places you can find to yourselves; the barn is dark and he wipes your skin off with his own shirt; the bathtub is half-full, sometimes murky from the dirt that the water washes away.
"don't—listen, 'm not like them. it's not like that."
he must be programmed that way to protect himself. to lie, to deflect. all the gentle touching is another line of code they've perfected, meant to leave you thinking of nothing else except for how he feels inside of you.
and you fell right for it. lesson learned.
it's not a little flame that identifies him, like the rest of the 'droids, but a small, cartoon bomb. lit, ready to explode.
aizawa keeps a loaded handgun underneath his pillow, and you lunge for it just as he dives for you.
you hit the floor hard, but so does he, and he's damaged, rusted, and you're able to scoot yourself far away from him, smooth material of the sleeping bag hurrying you along.
bakugou — or whatever he is. it is — only rises up on his knees, arm raised in surrender. just like before. just like the last one.
the second he — it — opens its mouth, you're already screaming, furious.
"fuck you!" the safety clicks; even you hear the echo of it, in the silence of the house.
"no, listen," it begs, alarm and panic and fear generating across its face. sickening, how real it seems. "i need your—"
you bark out a laugh, and it's because your cheeks swell with it that you realize they're wet and that your nose is dripping. "what, my help? digging all our graves, or do you even do that? do you even know what that—"
you choke, suddenly, voice breaking as he — it — tries to scoot closer. you should fire a warning shot or — no, you should just kill him. it.
when you shoot this gun, everyone will come running. they might have already overheard your shouting, with how quiet the property is, and you know once they do, it's over for him.
it.
"you have to believe me."
a trick, you tell yourself. meant to distract you, to take your unease away. scripted to find the softest parts of you, to poison.
sickening, how real it felt.
when you close your eyes, you go back to last night, listening to the audible breath that scratches in your ear. that vibrates against you neck, so that you can feel him, that he's there and safe and alive.
him. bakugou.
you can't look. it's hard enough to find your voice. "how long d-do we have? at least tell me that, before they get here."
"i don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about," an echo. a repeat of the lines he's learned to say to you. "because i'm not one of them, listen—"
bakugou — it — goes silent, and when you open your eyes, the barrel of a rifle is peeking in from the other room, only a breath away from his head.
hitoshi rounds him carefully, slipping around the back of him, urging you to move out of his line of sight. so he can blow him to hell, once and for all.
it.
quietly, the voice — one you know, one you've listened to — tries one final time. "please," it says, cloudy eye pinned to you, as he wears an illusionary sorrow. "don't abandon me."
hitoshi watches you carefully, waiting for you to move and —
(bakugou tucks a hair behind your ear, running the pad of his thumb gently across your browbone. just as you'd done, on the night he lay crumpled at your feet.
good to you, good to each other, in a world rigged to blow.)
you don't.
instead you drop your arms and shake your head. surrendered.
"sorry," you croak, running a hand across your face. "my ears, he—just scared me, that's all."
hitoshi doesn't retreat. if anything, his grip tightens, something flashing in his deep eyes. "don't bullshit me, not me. he's fucked and you know it—"
"you're right," you nod, bottom lip trembling as it — bakugou — watches the tears slip down over your jaw and onto your neck. "but we're leaving."
you close your eyes, blinded by the breath of light that flashes behind your lids. the image of bakugou pressing a kiss into your cheeks.
Synopsis: After a deadly diseases spreads rapidly across the globe survival of the fittest becomes an understatement. With violence around every corner you’re left no choice but to do what you must to live besides you aren’t one to turn down easy pickings. So when you come across a huge compound with tons of resources and slow guards you get comfortable. A little too comfortable. Stealing more rare items that make them suspicious that eventually leads to your capture by a mountain of a man who leaves you to the mercy of his vermillion eyed boss. And now all your roads are leading to a dead end.
Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, blood, spitting, body horror/gore.
Authors note: I wrote this in a about a week. As always I owe quite a lot to a few close friends for always letting me talk their ear off or blow up their dms. This is my birthday present to myself and to yall! So I’ll start posting in my birthday.
after all this time - six years ago, when they placed that sorting hat on your head, nobody expected for it to assign the muggleborn to the slytherin house, but it did. six years later, you find yourself as alone as the day you walked through those doors. little did you expect the prince of slytherin, the pureblood maniac himself, gojo satoru, to be the one to coincidentally fill your empty hours.
drabbles:
slytherin!gojo and where all it begins
slytherin!gojo at a slytherin party
slyhterin!gojo sees you in the muggle world
how slytherin!gojo reacts to somebody else taking you to a ball
when slytherin!gojo lies about the train being full so he could sit next to you
slytherin!gojo being petty when another guy talks to you
₊˚.༄ pairing: crown prince!gojo satoru x f!reader | setting: modern royal au
₊˚.༄ summary: in a world where titles define their fates, gojo satoru, the crown prince of japan, and his wife-to-be, face a tempestuous court of deception and schadenfreude. as they waltz on the edge of ruin, can their love endure the treacherous waters that threaten to pull them apart, or will the whims of the enigmatic chrysanthemum throne prove strong enough to drown them both?
₊˚.༄ author’s note: thank you so much to @angstbot2000, my awesome beta-reader for sitting through this 9.07k word count monstrosity of a first chapter! and with that, here we go~!
He was every bit the worldly man portrayed to be by the media and that alone is enough to terrify you, even as you sit about a full foot apart from him, feeling the pinprick of his ice-cold demeanor pierce your skin like a thousand needles.
“Your Highness, how have we never heard of your relationship with Ms. (Y/N) before unlike your previous ones?”, a correspondent from the NHK Broadcasting Corporation asks from the crowd of reporters, surprisingly at their most civil and dignified behavior before their future emperor and empress, literal gods in mortal form, embodiment of unadulterated divinity on earth in Japan’s distinct imperial past, one much different from today’s democratic and liberal political climate.
Gojo’s eye twitches at that.
It was a simple question, but it struck a nerve in him, angering him more than you ever could by merely existing. Though it was a valid inquiry, all of Satoru’s relationships have always been well-documented by the media, save for one. His supposed relationship with you.
You move to clutch his hand in an attempt to calm him down, having sensed his discomfort, but he only shrugs his hand away before you could even come within a quarter of an inch of touching him.
“My apologies, your Highness,” the reporter apologizes quickly when Satoru doesn’t answer right away, turning to the woman in charge of the press conference, situated by the podium displaying the seal of the imperial family. “Sorry, may I rephrase that?”
She turns to look at the prince, subtly asking for his permission. With a slight nod of his head, Satoru doles out his merciful forgiveness towards the reporter, keenly aware that it would only take him a second to have his staff contact the NHK Broadcasting Company and have them fire him before he could even return to the office.
“Thank you,” he bows gratefully. “Rephrasing my earlier question, would your Highness mind if you share a few words about how you and Ms. (Y/N) met?”
Satoru Gojo is a man who goes by many identities, as attested by tabloids and reputable newspapers alike; they agree on the fact that Satoru Gojo is a womanizer, a card shark, and the harbinger of disaster to the imperial family. He never sleeps with the same woman more than once, oftentimes leaving a poor naive girl entangled in a mess of sheets even before the morning sun filters through the motel’s bedroom windows. The crown prince isn’t entirely heartless though, he is quite known to leave a generous sum of money tucked neatly in a small envelope as a “thank you” gift to all the women he’s been with.
Not that it dulls the sting of humiliation, of course, it still hurts like hell to be treated as an expendable commodity that’s only good for a one night stand.
Funny how that grotesque description is starting to sound like you.
Another rumor about Satoru Gojo is that he’s a reckless card shark; one who goes to fine hotels during after-hours when the bar and lounge is reworked into a gambling den for the ultra rich and wealthy, closed to the unsuspecting plebeians, only frequented by those whose morals fall within the scope of gray and obsidian black. The young prince has been rumored to religiously go to these kinds of establishments to play high stakes poker games more often than he ever visits the family shrine where his ancestors are entombed in an uneasy eternal rest. The poor Emperor Meiji must be rolling in his grave seeing the imperial family’s impending doom at the hands of his great great grandson whose only real ambition in life is to waste it on the vulgar things that high society hedonistically craves.
One last thing to keep in mind about your fiancé is that he is a consummate actor, having honed the talent of keeping up appearances since his first public appearance as a child of only seven years old, alongside his mother and father during the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics which Tokyo had been selected to host earlier that year.
He squeezes your hand, despite rejecting the compassionate gesture earlier, and looks deep into your eyes with false fondness, fully aware that he was imagining the face of another in place of yours.
His nails bitterly dig into your skin as the cameras go off, capturing the tender moment between the two of you. To anyone outside the circle which you and Satoru unwillingly find each other entrapped in, the two of you were the quintessential picture-perfect couple, gazing at one another as if the world the two of you had found yourselves in would spiral out of its orbit had one of you dared to look away, The tabloids have even begun to call your unexpected engagement a modern-day fairytale unfolding before everyone’s eyes.
But that was just it, this entire arrangement — you and Satoru Gojo were nothing more than unwilling participants in a fabricated Cinderella story.
“Well, we met informally a few times before, during the national shamisen competition held in Kyoto two years ago and the awarding ceremony of our very own national artists where she received the title of ‘national treasure’ earlier last year–”
The many reporters scribble this information down on their bullet journals or tablets, hoping to piece together the exact timeline of this relationship. It is rather peculiar for the crown prince to suddenly reveal he is getting married, and to some mystery woman at that — not that the press was unfamiliar with you,with most of them being very much aware of your identity as a renowned traditional Japanese instrumentalist, but what eludes them is the manner in which you found yourself suddenly romantically involved with Prince Satoru Gojo of all people, whose affairs are heavily publicized by the media. The grotesque manner in which it is publicized is a different story.
“But we first met formally during His Majesty the Emperor’s silver jubilee. His Majesty is a benefactor to the Japan Arts Council and is a patron to many music conservatories in the country, and as such, is very interested in the fine arts. It just so happened that Ms. (Y/N) had been invited to play for us on the night of the Royal Gala.”
That was typical; the prince first meets the princess in a ball, looking upon her absolutely enthralled as she enters the ballroom, captivated like he was under some form of trance. His eyes would stay glued to her as she danced along to the crescendo of the string quartet, the hem of her gown fluttering about her form like a gentle stream of star-fall as she twirled gracefully under the bright chandelier lights. His lips would be parted, dazedly wondering who the girl could be and if they were ever fated to meet again.
But alas, one has to remind themselves that the age of dreaming of such hopelessly romantic nonsense, especially at twenty-three, is long over.
FLASHBACK: His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala
The Chrysanthemum Throne should have died the day the envoys of the late Emperor Shōwa, Foreign Minister Mamora Shigemitsu and General Yoshijiro Umezu, ascended the gangway of the USS Missouri to sign the unconditional surrender of the Japanese Empire to the allied forces that laid waste to the Japanese islands. With the allied powers marching onwards to the capital city of Tokyo, having left nothing in their wake but the ashes of an empire that had been brought to its knees by the fires of merciless destruction that rained from countless air raids, the narrative should have moved towards the abolishment of the entire imperial system and the immediate execution of the emperor. But in a bid to refashion the emperor as a symbol of continuity for Japan, General Douglas Macarthur’s decision to not hold Emperor Shōwa accountable for the war crimes committed in his name during the height of World War II allowed the last remnant of Japan’s imperial past to survive. Save for the removal of the emperor’s political power, the oldest monarchy in the world was left relatively unharmed.
Still, despite the fact that the imperial system had been effectively humbled after the war, this was not so evident as you walked through the imposing halls of the imperial palace.The Kita-Damari north lobby you passed through earlier gave an impression of uncontested refinement; the entire floor had been constructed from the most exquisite granite from Yamaguchi prefecture, and the walls embellished with cedar wood that can only be found in Kumamoto prefecture. If the lobby was meant to portray elegance, then, the Houmei-den State Banquet Hall exuded an air of absolute power that could make anyone tremble in the face of such magnificence; you could recognize the tapestry work of the legendary artist Gakuryo Nakamura as the main decoration piece for the walls, and even more rare stones and wood from Japan’s many prefectures serving as the foundation of the gargantuan hall.
It was half past nine when you accidentally locked eyes with the crown prince that night. This entire time, you’ve envisioned the imperial family as images on your phone screen. You didn’t think for one second that they could be real and that Satoru Gojo, the crown prince of your nation, despite all the disturbing rumors surrounding him these past few years, would be so ethereally beautiful, like he had been fashioned from pure celestial moonlight.
You avert your gaze immediately upon catching yourself staring at him, knowing you weren’t supposed to as part of royal protocol which you’d been thoroughly briefed on the moment you received the invitation to perform for the imperial family. You uneasily remove yourself from the hall in search of the lavatory to touch up your makeup when you come face-to-face with the empress who also excused herself from the festivities to get some air.
She doesn’t notice you at first as she continues to take a drag from her cigarette, staring blankly at the koi fish that swam about the courtyard garden’s pond. From afar, she looked to be an ordinary woman, not the untouchable monarch you thought she was alongside the rest of her family, her ivory hair was neatly pulled back into a tight bun, several crystal hair pieces dotting her silky locks. You quietly made your way towards the powder room, your pace slowing down as you inch closer to the empress not really knowing what to do.
Should you let her be while she’s having a moment to herself or do you intrude on the hallowed ground of her presence as protocol dictates with a low curtsy?
“Your Royal Highness,” you greet her, in a soft voice, stopping to curtsy as you pass by and she kindly hums in acknowledgement.
“Ms. (Y/N),” she turns to face you, discarding her half-finished cigarette in the jade ashtray. “Forgive me for smoking in front of you, do you mind?”
Secondhand smoke.
From that statement alone, though brief as it is, sheds light into the empress’s character as being empathetic, and compassionate. You shake your head, subconsciously playing with your clutch bag. “Thank you.” She reaches into her clutch bag again to pull out her pack, slotting a cigarette between her lips. “How are you enjoying the banquet so far? I hope it is to your liking.”
“I don’t think what I say should really matter. After all, I’m only a guest.” Your meek character causes the empress to let out the tiniest of laughs. A smile plays at your lips seeing her face morph into a soft chortle, her earlier troubles seemingly leaving her mind for a bit as she speaks with you. “But, in all seriousness, your Highness, I think the banquet is going well. Most of the other guests seem to feel the same way.”
The empress nods, relieved. “That’s good to hear, by the way, I hope your performance goes well,” she says. “His Majesty and I have been looking forward to it all evening.”
A blush paints your cheeks. As the only guest artist who will be playing a traditional Japanese instrument, the tsugaru shamisen, you were the odd one out among the other distinguished national artists who will be playing Western instruments such as the piano, the harp or the violin and many others. “That means a lot to me, your Highness, thank you,” you bow forty-five degrees.
“Well,” the empress says warmly, wrapping up the surprisingly refreshing conversation. “I wouldn’t want to keep you now, I’ll see you back inside,” she picks up her pearl-embellished clutch bag, and re-arranges her diamond tiara before excusing herself. As she makes her way back inside the reception hall to rejoin her family, she thinks back to the girl she just serendipitously met with a small smile on her face. Ms. (Y/N), she thinks to herself, recalling your name with a certain lightness in her heart.
Just then, her son, Satoru walks up to her, righting his lapel and the medal of the Supreme Order of the Chrysanthemum pinned to the left breast-pocket of his full royal uniform. “Mother,” he greets her formally, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. Gojo’s face falls when he sees his mother’s watchful eyes anxiously scouring the room for a particular person. “Mother, what is it?” he asks, concerned at her expression. Suddenly, his mother stiffens when she finds the exact person she is looking for, obvious displeasure painting her features.
Satoru tries to calm his mother down, his voice as soft as a feather’s touch, “Mother…” he trails off.
“You brought her here?” the empress whispers harshly, almost in disbelief that her son would be so insolent enough to do such a thing — by ‘such a thing’, she meant unscrupulously bringing along his Machiavellian Chief-of-Staff, Himiko Zenin, who seemed to relish in the attention being gallantly given to her by the many foreign heads of state in the banquet hall.
“And what is she wearing?”
Her face contorts into one of annoyance when she sees Himiko parading around the unmistakable Akoya pearl necklace only to be worn by members of the imperial family on her neck. The empress is not one to use unsavory words even for someone she dislikes with every fiber of her being, but she could not help but liken Himiko to a bitch brandishing a new expensive collar. She swears the sight alone is enough to make her vomit. “Is she a member of the imperial family now, Satoru, what on earth—!”
“She’s not hurting anybody,” Satoru’s eyes narrowed into slits at his mother’s reaction.
“She’s hurting you!” the empress hisses, begging her son to see reason. Satoru has been made well-aware of the fact that keeping Himiko around was not good for his public image, yet, he still insists on fanning the flames that could sooner devour his pipe dream of inheriting his father’s crown.
Satoru glares at his mother, before proceeding to spare his radiant Chief-of-Staff an amused glance, a sense of pride forming in his chest seeing her alluring charm at work as she mingles effortlessly with his father’s guests. He often argues that Himiko is the blueprint of the perfect future consort — she comes from the Zenin political clan that has made Tokyo its political stronghold since the 1970s, she is intelligent in all ways from being fluent in many languages to knowing the law from inside out, charming and charismatic, and most of all, easy on the eyes. A smirk forms on Gojo’s lips when he sees Himiko sharing a laugh with the wife of the Russian ambassador as if to prove his point.
“Let’s just go,” he ignores her pleas, gently pulling his distraught mother away to take their seats next to his father, nonchalantly condoning Himiko’s brazen-faced behavior.
As long as he was around, no one could harm her, not even the empress.
“Acknowledging the representative correspondent from Nippon News Network, Mr. Nozomi. You may ask your question now,” the floor adjutant says into the microphone.
“Thank you,” Nozomi stands up, momentarily adjusting his press ID. He flips through his leatherbound notebook in search of the query he hastily wrote earlier. “This question is directed to Ms. (Y/N).” A spiteful quiet scoff escapes Satoru’s lips, sending waves of hurt in your chest. What could you possibly contribute to this already awkward conversation? And what did you even know about the imperial system’s traditions?
“Ms. (Y/N), I’d like to know your thoughts on marrying into the imperial family at this delicate time. As you probably know, many of our citizens are questioning the relevance of the imperial system now that our country has embraced democratic values over pro-imperialist ones, thus, leading to the formation of staunch anti-royalists groups. Do you believe that your marriage to Prince Satoru would bring about a positive change to Japan’s current political landscape?”
Your thoughts stutter. “Political…landscape?” you think aloud, and Satoru only smiles/smirks in cold amusement, taking a sip of his sparkling water and eyeing you from his peripheral, seeing you pathetically struggle to conjure up a coherent answer. You haven’t exactly gotten to learn about your duties yet as Gojo’s future wife and a future princess, and he was eager to see how you’ll worm your way out of this one. Of course you neither understood the intricacies of the world you were marrying into nor the unknown minefield you dared tread; most women who throw themselves at Gojo’s feet, kissing the soles of his shoes deplorably begging them to marry him, are like that — naive, unintelligent — he looks at your plain features again and rolls his eyes severely disappointed — and criminally boring to look at in comparison to the standard he has set.
“My apologies, Mr. Nozomi,” a soft smile graces Satoru’s lips when he hears her melodious voice cutting through the awkward tension in the air as you wrack your head for an answer. “But, it seems you’ve caught Ms. (Y/N) off guard there. Perhaps, you have another question that’s a bit…easier to understand? We are, after all, here to bear witness to an engagement, not a political fora.”
Himiko steps forward from her spot next to the member of the Imperial Household Agency who was facilitating this press conference, her dainty hands clasped in front of her in an immaculately proper posture befitting the crown prince’s Chief-of-Staff and his rightful future wife, or so Gojo thought. How he wished it had been her who sat next to him today, with the diamond encrusted engagement ring he reluctantly gave you adorning her ring finger instead. Gojo’s intrusive thoughts swarm in his mind as they tempt him to kiss her in front of all these cameras and single handedly destroy his engagement to you in a single, gut-wrenching blow. But he is quick to stop himself when he remembers his mother’s words earlier this morning.
“This is your last chance, Satoru. This is the last thing I can do to save you, please don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
At any point in time, he would have succumbed to his desire to expose his relationship with his beloved Chief-of-Staff, but this was a pivotal moment that could spell the end for him and his ambitions if he does so much as make a single move that could anger his father. And what’s worse was he might not be able to guarantee Himiko’s safety if that happens. Satoru, therefore, resigns himself to continue holding your hand, albeit reluctantly, his fingers finding the gaps of yours.
The reporter nods at Himiko’s backhanded request.
“My apologies, then,” he ratifies his question to make it more suitable for someone of your caliber. You couldn’t help but shrink into yourself, feeling that you are being patronized by everyone in this room — from your frigid fiancé to his Chief-of-Staff who was severely outclasses you in eloquence, refinement and sophistication and to all the members of the press that had been invited today whose reception to your engagement to the crown prince has been lukewarm at best. “My question then is—“
“—I am sorry for taking too long to answer your question, Mr. Nozomi.” Satoru’s eyes flicker over to yours, taken aback when you speak up. “I, unfortunately, am not yet that familiar with the current situation concerning these said groups, and,” you bite your lip, thinking of what to say next. “I don’t think I’m qualified enough to give an objective opinion on whether my marriage to his Highness will bring about a positive change to our nation.”
Gojo grimly scowls as he watches you make amends with your forthcoming destiny as his future wife, and heaven willing, empress of the nation.
“And I cannot promise that I will lead this country to greatness. I cannot grant laws to uphold and promote justice, I most certainly cannot lead our defense forces to defend our nation, but…”
You think back to why you came here in the first place, your heart pounds violently in your chest as adrenaline rushes through your entire body.
“But I can do this: I can dedicate my entire life to making this country a better place for our people, though, I still do not quite know the way. But I will most certainly do my utmost to try.”
FLASHBACK: His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala
You don’t know how they do it — standing in front of a multitude of people under the glare of the limelight, about a thousand pairs of eyes trained on you as if at that moment, you stood at the very center of the world without cracking. This was the life they were born into, a life that overflowed with the contrasting worlds of luxury and duty, power and powerlessness, indulgence and deprivation. The women of the imperial family were dressed in the most luxurious of gowns with hundreds of precious stones sewn onto the fabric, and the men wore their dignified navy uniforms. All of the people in the hall have gathered far and wide to bring good tidings to the emperor and his family, bringing gifts of jewels, national treasures, and promises of a stronger alliance with Japan. Yet, something felt off about them — their faces, although trained and poised to smile, were pictures of discomfort.
The white-haired prince you had locked eyes with earlier, the one who watched you intently throughout your performance as you skillfully struck the strings of your shamisen with the bachi producing a sound that resonates deep within the primal past of Japan, stared at you with an unreadable expression as he clapped his hands. You offer him the smallest of smiles to be polite just like you did with the empress earlier when you found her smoking outside the banquet hall, but he does not reciprocate the gesture, his eyes devoid of any warmth unlike his mother. Standing before the crowd of many world leaders and the imperial family, you bow reverently before your public, your shamisen strapped to your body, while your calloused fingers gripped the bachi of the instrument.
The crowd thundered with applause, most of the foreign dignitaries rising to their feet, giving you a standing ovation as you finished your piece. You bow again when the applause continues for another minute or so.
Satoru grimaces when he hears his father whisper to his mother. “Isn’t she amazing?” he marvels at your performance, showering you with more praise for that brief number than he ever gave his son for the majority of his life.
The empress senses Satoru’s growing ire, and nudges her son’s arm, consoling him despite their earlier disagreement about bringing Himiko to the gala. Satoru doesn’t know what to feel. Despite all his shortcomings and his active efforts to build an impenetrable steel wall between them, his mother still does everything in her power to meet him halfway. As his hand reaches to find his mother’s, however, he spots Himiko exiting the hall, stopping mid-way to stare at him with her irresistible fox-like eyes, tempting him to follow her like a siren beckoning an unfortunate sailor to surrender to the abyssal depths.
“Satoru,” his mother says under her breath, holding onto the belief that her son could muster up the willpower to resist Himiko’s whims. The emperor was about to give his courtesy address, and having the crown prince walk out at this moment would be severely inappropriate, not to mention, damaging to his already bad reputation. “Satoru, please.”
His father ascends the steps, each stride evoking a deep sadness and longing in Satoru. Somehow, the crown prince hones in on the clicking of his father’s shoes against the granite floor, the same ones he’d have to fill someday when his father grows weary of their ancestors’ throne. The speech is pretty uneventful with his father going on and on about preserving the peace and harmony of his reign, his so-called Reiwa era, and vowing to continue his public service, which he had begun as a young man in the august of his own father’s reign, until the twilight of his days.
Harmony, Gojo thinks bitterly, a sneer appearing on his face. What did his old man know of such a word when all he’s done, so far, is sow the seeds of discord in his family?
“On that note, I’d like to express my deepest gratitude to all of you, our dear guests and to my fellow fathers and mothers of your own respective nations, who have so kindly come here today to renew our vows of selfless service to our peoples. May we all be imbued with endless wisdom in our pursuit of the greater good.”
The cameras go off like little flashes of lightning spontaneously piercing the dark, moody space of the reception hall.
What a fucking joke, Satoru scoffs into his champagne, the golden liquid staining his throat and holding back words of contempt towards his father. What did his father know of being a father when he had spent his entire life tearing apart his own family in the name of the throne? What did he know of harmony when he had done nothing but sow discord in the imperial house?
The emperor gives a slight nod of acknowledgement to the gracious applause he receives, and promptly makes his way over to his family who are in the process of arranging themselves for an official picture in front of the late Emperor Taisho’s magnum opus, his calligraphy painting that read: 永遠の恵み (Eternal grace) which is the imperial family’s personal motto and central dogma, to commemorate this momentous occasion. Satoru stands next to his father, his breath shallow as if being anywhere near his father could suffocate him.
“I see you’re still acting like the petulant child you are,” his father spat having already spotted Satoru’s little plaything in the crowd earlier tonight, despite the well-rehearsed smile on his face as the official photographer snaps photos in quick succession.
The tongue that Gojo has been holding finally breaks free from the dam that’s been holding the waters of resentment from bursting forth. “And I see you’re still an ass.” Hopefully, the photographers couldn’t hear their tense conversation lest it be the cause of another scandal;, the rumor mill didn’t need any more ammunition for yet another mudslinging campaign against the imperial family.
Oh, but wouldn’t it be interesting if Satoru made a scene to ruin his father’s special day by lewdly kissing his Chief-of-Staff for the entire world to see?
As if sensing her forbidden lover’s thoughts, Himiko saunters over to the official photographer, putting on the air of a devoted servant of the crown prince, ever present within ten feet from her master, when just minutes prior, she acted like she could replace the empress herself.
“You insolent—“ his father grits his teeth at the sight of Satoru’s tramp, absolutely furious.
“Please stop,” the empress spoke under her breath, close to tears. Why is it that whenever their family is together, which is a rare occasion in itself, it always ends in such painful conflict?
“If only we had another son-” the emperor continued his tirade against his only living son, the only legitimate child that he had been blessed with after years of trying to produce an heir with his wife. But there was not a scintilla of anger in his voice; that had long passed when the empress had effectively quelled the fury in his heart with her broken plea, instead there is only longing for things that cannot be.“-if only…Suguru had been our boy, our prince-”
And just like that, something breaks inside Satoru akin to a glass goblet imploding when it hits the floor. It was almost as if his father wished that he had never been born.
…”Fuck this,” the white-haired prince moves to leave, but his mother’s delicate touch catches his arm.
“Satoru, my little light.”
Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat when his mother calls him by his old childhood nickname. Little light. That’s what they wanted him to be since the moment his cerulean eyes first opened as a baby who has been unwillingly burdened with the weight of centuries of tradition on him the minute he was conceived. His name had already been predetermined to mean ‘enlightenment’; everyone wanted him to be a light for the nation, a hope for the people. The imperial family may have been reduced to mere powerless symbols of the constitution, but they are the embodiment of their people’s hopes and dreams for a better Japan. It took twenty years for the emperor and empress to be blessed with their little light, but now, it seems that everything is growing disorientingly dimmer at such an accelerated pace.
But the empress will not just stand by and watch the light get extinguished. “Please don’t do this, we need you.”
Of course he always craved to be beloved by the people, to become their bonafide and benevolent prince. It had always been his dream to inherit his father’s crown, to fill the impossibly large shoes of his ancestors. But, what is truly his dream or was this a dream unjustly forced onto him?
The wind howls more violently and the final flicker of the imperial family’s light loses the battle, as the candle that had first been set alight by their forebears is now reduced to a pool of wax. Satoru’s eyebrows furrow, utterly spent from all of this, and yanks back his arm from his mother’s grasp.
“You need your prince…but when will you ever need your son?”
And with that, he leaves, his free hand ripping off the Medal of the Order of the Chrysanthemum once he is a good distance away from the gala’s venue. Himiko stays behind for a few minutes to make sure that she isn’t giving off the impression of being so eager to follow the prince and condone his tantrum. Instead, she stares directly at the empress, emerald and sapphire clashing violently with one another, as she wordlessly celebrates her victory.
Mr. Nozomi, though known by his colleagues to be a no-nonsense kind of man, seems satisfied with your answer. It lacked some academic background, but it was a statement that was sure to bring comfort to the people. “Thank you, Ms. (Y/N). This is comforting to know,” the stout man with graying hair offers you a reassuring smile. It had been so long since many people, particularly and most especially in his age group, had ever had the honor of seeing such a warm-hearted future monarch whose words could almost easily calm others, and he dare say, even the violent Sea of Japan whose fury has long been felt in his freezing hometown of Hokkaido since time immemorial.
Satoru forces a smile at that, literally grinning and bearing it — by ‘it’, he meant your little display to outshine him, your future husband, the Crown.
“Any more questions?” the imperial house’s official speaker calls out as the room is filled with the sound of pen tips scratching on paper as the members of the press write down notes. This was going to be the wedding of the century, and they’d be damned if they couldn’t make a good story out of it. “None?”
“Actually, I have one.” Himiko gives the microphone to the correspondent from The Tokyo Times, the most reputable newspaper in the country. “I hope that this question doesn’t offend His Royal Highness, but if you may indulge me for a bit, don't you think the timing of this wedding is too sudden? I mean,” she clears her throat momentarily. “His Highness had only recently been allowed to appear before the public after he got arrested the other week, and now, he’s getting married.”
Just when you thought that the brutal questions would start to mellow out, one of the more hardened reporters all but crushes your remaining hope of this press conference ending on a good note.
All color drains from your face at that question. It was, indeed, warranted. If you had seen all this unfold before your very eyes, during your time as a commoner, the whole marriage would appear rushed, not to mention, fishy especially after the many Lesé-Majesté that had victimized the imperial family lately due to Gojo’s recent and very frequent scandals.
You look at your fiancé, heart pounding in your chest. What were you supposed to say to that? It’s not like you could be downright blunt about the whole reason why you’re getting married in the first place, that would only paint your soon-to-be husband’s family in a worse light; right now, people only challenge the relevance of the imperial family in a free democracy like Japan, you really don’t want to reach that point of no return when they start to despise the very notion of paying taxes to an institution that they feel is morally ambiguous.
Not to mention, such sentiment could put you and your fiancé in danger.
Satoru takes a deep breath through his nose, desperately calming himself before he says anything damning. How he wished he could have this petulant woman dragged out of there for such an offensive question but that would only prove her point.
Fortunately, Satoru is well-prepared for this, no matter how irritating his current predicament is. Having to be reminded of the greatest source of his humiliation is infuriating, but it could also provide him with the perfect opportunity to rewrite his public image and regain his footing in the act of succession currently being drafted by His Majesty, the Emperor.
All of a sudden, he rises to his full height, his hand not letting go of the sleeve of your white wool coat as he does. He casts you a disgusted look, seeing the expensive fabric hug your form; how is it even possible that you were wearing a high class outfit and still look like a cheap imitation of all the women he’s been with? He couldn’t begin to compare you to Himiko whose fashion sense and overall aura outshined yours; it would be like comparing rust to the Hope Diamond.
“Satoru, what are you doing?”
“Just follow my lead and drop that stupidly lost face you make all the time,” he hisses into your ear. “Now, stand up,” he commands, pretending to help you to your feet like the head-over-heels-in-love fiancé he’s meant to be and not the stone cold man whose last name will be the heaviest burden you’ll have to carry for the rest of your life. Well, by your life, you meant the snake pit that you now found yourself in with a fiancé who wishes you to fade from the fabric of existence and the prying eyes of the world keenly watching the drama that is yours and Satoru’s impending marriage.
Satoru smooths out any wrinkles on your dress before turning to the cameras. Gasps fill the room at what he does next. “Y-your Highness?” a journalist puts a hand over her mouth at the sight of the crown prince’s display of humble contrition: a bow, a plea for the forgiveness of his people. Following his lead, you also bow, your palms pressed against your thighs.
“I am sorry,” his tenor rings clear like the ringing of a shinto shrine’s suzu when a pilgrim first sets foot on the hallowed grounds of the temple. “As your prince, I understand that I have failed my family, His Imperial Majesty, the emperor, and Her Royal Highness, the empress. I have, in my recklessness, failed my ancestors, and the throne itself. But most of all, I, through my reckless actions, have failed each and every one of you who are probably watching this.”
Sincerity oozes out from each word, and you wonder, does Gojo actually mean any of this? Or was this another one of his well-rehearsed theatrics? And if this, his first public apology for all the atrocious things he’s done, is all conjured from the distorted playwright that is Prince Satoru Gojo, then, you could only pray that he takes pity on you and does not make an actress out of you.
FLASHBACK: The Imperial Palace of Tokyo (An hour after His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee Gala)
Satoru painfully eyes his mother who earlier tonight had cruelly given him the false hope that she would always advocate for him only to avert her gaze, screwing her eyes shut as if by doing so — all of this — all the undue hurt that her son had caused the family would magically go away. “Mother.” Is she even qualified to still be called that when she has proved tonight that she would abandon her son in his time of need without a moment’s hesitation?
What his father says next is so hypocritical that it makes even hardened criminals look more honest and self-aware than him. “Don’t use that tone on her, don’t even dare.”
Satoru scoffs angrily, he can’t believe this. “I didn’t know you’ve recently decided to be a devoted husband now,” he snarls but his father doesn’t budge, he was not going to entertain his foolish son’s tantrums today. The emperor only pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily, desperately seeking out the reason he has been dealt the unfortunate hand of having such a heathenous son.
“I don’t even know what to say.” What can be said when face to face with such a vile predicament? Normally, his disagreements with Satoru would be tempered by his wife’s intervention, pleading with him to spare the heir to the throne of unforgiving punishments that brewed within a wrathful father’s mind; the last time was Satoru’s humiliating suspension from his public duties and the instance before that, a severe cut in his monthly salary as a public official funded personally by the people he blatantly betrays in his acts of wanton avarice. The difference between those times and this unfortunate situation is that in the past, one could still detect some semblance of remorse in Satoru’s demeanor.
All that is gone now. If one were to compare Satoru to a criminal, he is already a hardened one, desensitized to his wrongdoings.
The steel handcuffs which hugged the skin of Satoru’s wrists prove that, at this point in time, the heir to throne’s character was in serious jeopardy. “Your Majesty, you can reprimand your son however you’d like, but, please do not have him chained up like some animal.” She knows such a request is wrong. Like a dog released from a painful muzzle, Satoru would only grow more rabid with his actions. In the past, he was fueled by a desire for attention, now, after this night, he would be fueled by spite.
Other than the imperial family, three police officers who came from the Kabukichō district where Satoru had been reported to be physically assaulting a fellow gambler when a high stakes poker game had turned in favor of his opponent are in the room, witnessing all this happen with bated breath. It took at least five officers to pry Satoru off the bloodied middle aged man who had a foot in his grave by the time the crown prince was done obliterating his face, and another five to escort him into the police mobile.
All of this transpired on the night of the silver jubilee gala. Mere hours after Satoru took off.
A horrified silence had befallen the entire banquet hall when the news broke out, immediately going viral on every social media platform.
The emperor contemplates his wife’s words for but a passing moment when he decides otherwise, turning to the men in blue, his voice is authoritative and could make any devil tremble in their boots. “Thank you for reprimanding my son,” he sighs. “I can assure you that—“
The Tokyo metropolitan police officers alongside the imperial police await the decision of the emperor, but have already begun to pull out the keys to Satoru’s handcuffs thinking that His Majesty would have him released.
“—All charges pressed against Satoru Gojo will proceed accordingly and—“
And for once in his life, Satoru feels the unmistakable emotion — terror. “—What?” Satoru is livid at this point. “Father!”
He merely ignores Satoru, his eyes trained at the shocked faces of the many officers whose feet are still planted to the ground.
“—And that I will be allowing all concerned members of all law enforcement units who responded tonight to take him into custody until the date of his full criminal trial should any take place. As such, I now declare Satoru Gojo’s claim to the throne as null and void, and his title of crown prince forfeited in favor of his brother, Suguru Geto—“
It was at this time that Himiko once again barges in just as Satoru is being led away, surprisingly, she was now wearing her usual uniform of a black suit and pencil skirt. She immediately throws herself at the feet of the emperor. Where was the bravado she so proudly displayed at the jubilee gala by indirectly confronting the empress? Gone. Where were the pearls she had practically worn without authorization of the people who were permitted to wear them? Now replaced with her fake 12-karat gold necklace that she wore since childhood. “Your Majesty,” she kneels before him like her pleas would reach the emperor’s stony heart. “Please don’t do this—“
The emperor and empress angrily turn towards her, their eyes ablaze. What was she doing here? “I have half a mind to have you arrested too, Ms. Zenin!” the emperor growls. Himiko was there at the scene of the crime, after all, and having her arrested would greatly destabilize the hold she possessed on the imperial family through her illicit affair with the crown prince. “Now, drop it!” the emperor yells at the sputtering girl. “I have allowed you to lead my son astray for too long and now it is time for me, his father, to discipline him, unless, of course…you’re willing to take his punishment for him.”
“Yes,” Himiko nods frantically. “Please do whatever you want with me, I-I will gladly accept it all.”
“No!” Satoru resists against the officers, as the imperial guards begin to restrain Himiko who makes a pained sound when she, too, is given handcuffs of her own. “Don’t hurt her! Please don’t hurt her!” It was the plea of a being in love, seeing his lover take all his father’s bullets. “Father! I’m begging you—!”
“—And how long have you made the empress and I beg for you to straighten out your life?!”
“—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Satoru was exhibiting signs of mental distress at this point, his eyes brimming with tears like he were a child who had been told he was grounded. “Your Majesty,” he reverts to calling his father by his official title. “Please…please. Just let her go.”
How incredibly touching: two sworn lovers protecting one another to the bitter end, selflessly taking the fall for the other, shielding their beloved from any danger that might befall them. Only problem is…this toxic partnership between a prince whose life’s purpose is to stupidly follow his heart with gross disregard for those around him and a woman whose negative influence is demolishing her beloved’s reputation.
While the country is reeling from an economic recession, here Satoru and Himiko were indulging in yacht trips, while the impoverished scrounge for food in Tokyo’s many landfills, the crown prince and his girlfriend attended lavish state banquets left and right, while the homeless sleep under a resin-roofed bus stop at the height of winter, Satoru gifts countless of properties to Himiko as if one home couldn’t possibly be enough for the woman he so desperately loves.
“Satoru,” Himiko sniffles as she is slowly taken away, defiantly calling him by his name rather than his official title in front of Their Majesties. As if by doing so, that would help hers and Satoru’s case.
Gojo shakes his head furiously, his eyes welling up with tears. “Mother, please don’t do this.”
If this was going to be the end of them, then, Satoru hoped that his family would, at least, allow Himiko to return to being a private citizen, to walk away from all of this a free woman, free to live out the rest of her life away from the schadenfreude of the imperial court. Even if it meant never having to see her again, feel her warm touch against his skin the same way the sun bathes the earth in its resplendent glow, kiss her with the passion of someone who could have been a devoted husband to her had they been born in different circumstances, he will do anything. He would count the very stars in the sky if he could, die a thousand deaths if he must, if it meant allowing Himiko to be spared the pain of being branded as a criminal and placed behind bars.
“I’ll do anything, please just don’t hurt the woman I love.”
If only Satoru put more effort into earning the love of his people the same way he’s now willing to humbly bow his head to cossett the love of his life. Akiko Gojo gasps quietly when her prideful son falls to his knees in supplication. Suddenly, she is filled with memories of a younger Satoru who was once chastised by his courtiers for tripping on his own feet while he frolicked and played in the palace gardens, and how she didn’t think twice to comfortingly lift him into her arms while his retainer had been so content leaving him on the ground, his scraped knee ailing him as he struggled to stand up.
The empress’s feet seemed to have been possessed by a mind of their own, as she took one step forward, her sorrowful eyes trained on her crying son. “Satoru,” she gently crouches down next to him. “Oh, my little light,” she calls him by his childhood nickname. “Please don’t cry,” she weeps as she wipes his tears away with her thumbs. She shouldn’t be doing this, knowing that Satoru would only take advantage of the knowledge that she’s always going to be there for him regardless of what he does and what monster he becomes.
But seeing her child, her only boy, in the thralls of desolation is too much for her frail heart. So, she makes the choice for him, standing firm before her husband who has always taken the lead in their marriage. “Your Majesty, I beg you to not make a criminal out of Satoru, and reconsider restoring him to the succession. Please have mercy on your son.” His only legitimate heir. If Suguru were to inherit the throne, it would only throw their family into more chaos, and with the events of tonight, the imperial house could benefit from letting Satoru’s recent mishap die quietly. It would be disastrous for everyone if, on the anniversary of his father’s coronation, Satoru were to be unceremoniously thrown out of the palace.
“Akiko,” the emperor involuntarily utters his wife’s name, surprised at her sudden decision to stand up for their degenerate son.
From the moment the 2.3 pound Meiji tiara first touched her head, she relinquished all sense of self to the crown — her surname, her childish desires to lead a normal life, her civilian antics, everything — but now, here she stood before him, not as Empress Akiko but the liberal-minded woman that the emperor fell in love with as a young man. She may have given up everything to forge herself anew as empress of the country, but there is one thing that she has kept under lock and key so that the crown may never hope to steal it from her: her unconditional love for her son.
“Your Majesty,” she glances at Satoru’s kneeling form, her heart clenching in her chest. I’m sorry, my little light, she silently apologizes to her son, the last thing she wants is to seek the impossible from him, but if this was the only way that his future will be secured, then, she’ll just have to be the awful mother that Gojo thinks her to be. “I have a proposition for you.”
A journalist looks up from his laptop, dumbfounded at what he’s witnessing. “…No way,” he says under his breath. It wasn’t everyday you see a monarch bow before his people begging to be pardoned, but then again, no other monarch in the world is more problematic than Satoru Gojo.
Satoru clutches the fabric of his slacks, his knuckles turning white as he does so. This was so humiliating for him, having to apologize to mere nobodies whose existence wouldn’t even make it to the footnotes of history books to be written a hundred years from now. “I know my words mean nothing after everything I’ve done and the people I hurt, but still, I am sorry,” Satoru utters the apology again as if by saying it a second time, it would hasten his godforsaken sentence that is to be locked in a vile marriage with you.
He’s made it clear earlier by his gestures that he wants nothing to do with you, but perhaps that was only because you hardly know one another, you don’t exactly run in the same circle as him, you don’t have the slightest connection to any political dynasty — not by affiliation, and most certainly not by blood — nor were you some heiress to some long standing conglomerate that the imperial family is closely acquainted with. Perhaps it was just that. All of this animosity stems from the disturbing fact that you couldn’t even call yourself friends now here you were betrothed to one another announcing your engagement to the world.
But, something doesn’t feel right.
Shouldn’t awkwardness between you and Satoru be the worst thing that could come from this shotgun arrangement? You understand that this situation is uncomfortable for him as much as it is terrifying for you but is this truly enough to warrant his hatred? It’s not like you actively volunteered for the part, after all, yet he acts as if you had been the prime instigator of this marriage. You find yourself caught between wanting to keep him at arms’ length to advocate for tense but peaceful silence in your marriage and wanting to become his true and altruistic wife to get to know him better but at the expense of your emotional well-being knowing that he’ll probably hurl new insults at you.
At this point, the former seems to be the safest option, but there is something so deeply intriguing and captivating in Satoru that you ignore all the warning signs altogether.
Satoru ends the press conference by re-announcing the date of the wedding which will take place next week. You follow him out of the hall, meekly walking three steps behind him. Suddenly, he stops in his tracks, burying his hands in his pocket, adopting a more casual posture. You expect him to berate you for some unknown faux pas you’ve committed during the press conference but instead, you are met with something else. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
He turns around to face you, he doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look too invested in the conversation either. He just seemed indifferent. His eyes dart around the expanse of the corridor, someone could be listening in to this conversation — the palace has eyes and ears everywhere after all — he needs to temper his tongue lest he angers the emperor or the empress, despite every nerve in his body tempting him to spew more vitriol at you.
Waving a dismissive hand, you shake your head, instantly forgiving him earlier. “No, I must have overstepped my boundaries, I understand and I’m sorry.”
Gojo sighs heavily, offering you a small nod. “Let’s just forget about it,” he says. “It’s getting late,” he notes the time on his watch. “You should probably head home to rest.” That was…surprisingly kind of him.
“A-actually,” you unconsciously play with your engagement ring. “I wanted to ask if you were free tonight so we could…have dinner together.” The empress encouraged the both of you to get to know each other, after all. “I know it must be difficult being engaged to me when you don’t even know me.”
Satoru lets out a weak laugh. He wasn’t at all interested in getting to know you, frankly, he couldn’t give two shits, but it was amusing for him to see how delusional you are.
“I see,” he notes in a business-like manner. “Well, perhaps another time since I have an urgent appointment tonight and I’m already running late.” You can’t even pretend to not be disappointed when you’ve already taken the liberty of reserving seats for the two of you at a nearby restaurant you frequently visit. He plants a parting kiss on your cheek, but something about it feels so detached and hollow, but who were you to expect more when he didn’t harbor an ounce of affection for you? You nod against the kiss, curtsying as he walks away.
“What a day.” You discard the many hair pins that neatly gathered your hair into a half-updo, grimacing at the stickiness of your locks from the copious amount of hairspray that had been applied to it. Sighing, you get into your car, removing the standard four inch pumps you’ve been instructed to wear, as per the dress protocol set by the Imperial Household Agency for female members of the imperial family when they attend public events, in favor of your more laidback ballet flats.
As you drive out of the main compound of the palace, you are surprised to see Satoru, accompanied by what looks like eight bodyguards, hastily making his way to the official car used by the emperor. He waits as his chauffeur brings the car around, but for some reason, he does not look impatient for someone who is supposedly running late for an urgent appointment, he is leisurely tapping away on his phone. Suddenly, something catches you off guard. A boyish grin appears on Satoru’s face when he is approached by a figure that looks like a woman.
An awfully familiar one.
You don’t know if it must be the heat from your car’s air conditioning unit but — you feel your heart in your throat, no, to be accurate, you feel like you’ve been winded by a punch to the gut — you understand why she would be with him given her position and all, but why was Satoru draping his suit over his Chief-of-Staff’s narrow shoulders?
Summary: An accidental run-in with one of Japan's most-wanted villains leaves you yearning for more; unfortunately, you're not the only one with a blooming fascination to hide.
Fandom: My Hero Academia
AU: Canon Divergent
Pairing: Dabi | Touya Todoroki x Reader
Rated: E (explicit)
Content Warning: spoilers for Season 6, blood and violence, arson, stalking, explicit language, slow burn romance (mutually obsessive but actual romance comes later on), eventual smut, dubcon, cat-and-mouse game, borderline yandere behavior from both parties, alcohol consumption, smoking, unhealthy attachment issues from both Dabi and Reader, past familial abuse, both of them are kinda fucked up but oh well
Additional Tags: female reader, heavily inspired by Haunting Adeline (that's a warning in and of itself), reader has a personality/slight backstory (originally from overseas, home country not specified), additional OCs included, reader is a writer (shocker) so prepare for a lot of useless writing metaphors and sad feelings
Disclaimer: This story is incredibly personal to me; it's one of my comfort fics, the one I can turn to when I'm feeling down, the one I can just turn my brain off and not worry about heavy plotlines and tiny details. I read an unhealthy amount of smutty books over the summer (*cough* reverse harem stories *cough*) and channeled those h-word thoughts and secret fantasies into this story. Please heed the warnings above and included in each chapter, and I hope you enjoy the ride :)
Could you right a zombie apocalypse au with dabi? I don’t have any idea about how it could go but always love the only one bed trope haha
Splitting this into two parts because it was getting too long. Part one has no smut (but there will be plenty in part two, don’t worry!).
The Trade Part One
Smut to follow in part two, strong language, violence, implied (failed) rape attempt, etc. 18+.
The first time you saw the mysterious black haired man in the woods, you were convinced he was one of them. After all, in the shadows of the trees his extensive, deep purple scarring had looked like wounds. He’d walked slowly, almost lumbering. It wasn’t until later that you realized his unusual gait was due to him dragging a large animal behind him.
When he emerged from the forest and into the sunlight, with you watching silently from the tree line, you finally understood that this was no zombie. It was a scarred man who had just killed a deer for his supper.
From there, you followed him to a clearing by the road, where a rusty white van was parked. You stayed hidden just inside the woods as you watched him set up camp around the van. He drove plastic gardening stakes into the ground all around him, then wrapped some sort of wire around them, marking a perimeter. He then methodically tied empty cans in sets of threes to the wire, every few feet. It seemed like a lot of work, but it would definitely alert him if a zombie wandered into his area.
He didn’t seem to have any system in place to detect human interlopers though, as they could easily spot the cans and step over them. Either he was foolish enough to believe he was completely alone out here, or he was confident enough in his ability to defend himself that he wasn’t worried. You hoped it was the former.
He started a small fire, then went to work skinning and cleaning the deer. You took note of the fact that he seemed to have plenty of supplies, including bottled water. You couldn’t help licking your dry lips. You’d been drinking water from a nearby river, but it was unfiltered, and sometimes made you sick. You drank as little of it as possible, so it kept you alive but you were persistently thirsty.
When he began cooking the deer meat, you had a battle on your hands to keep your stomach from growling loudly enough to give away your presence. You reached into your tattered backpack and pulled out the last strip of rabbit jerky you had. A family you’d met over a week ago had given you some wrapped in paper, and you’d made it last as long as you could. Aside from a fish you’d managed to catch in the river and three potatoes you’d dug out of an abandoned garden, the jerky was all you’d eaten in ten days.
The deer meat smelled delicious, but you didn’t dare approach. You had to observe this man for a while first. He’d pulled several things out of his van, so it clearly had lots of supplies inside. If you could learn his habits, maybe you could steal from him. You’d certainly done it before, to anyone who seemed to have more than they absolutely needed.
Eventually you retreated further into the woods and climbed into a tree to sleep. It was the only way you could rest while knowing zombies roamed about. The next morning, the man with the van was gone, and you cursed yourself for sleeping so soundly.
Two days later, you spotted the man coming out of a convenience store that had obviously been looted already. It was in a tiny, empty town, and you’d crept in to look for food. When you heard loud crashes and bangs coming from the store, you ducked into an alley across the street and watched.
The glass door of the shop burst open as a zombie was seemingly thrown outside. As it tried to stand back up, the black haired man stepped out of the store, holding an aluminum baseball bat. He pressed his boot into the zombie’s chest to hold it down, then swung the bat, smashing the zombie’s head with one hit.
Two more zombies followed him out of the store, and three others lumbered over from nearby streets, attracted to the commotion. You felt a sense of panic, even though you were hidden and far enough away that you could easily flee before any of them reached you. Zombies in general did not scare you. They were slow and dumb and easy to lure into traps. You’d killed plenty with your hunting knife. But in groups, they could be terrifying. Any more than three at a time sent you into flight mode.
The man was surrounded by five zombies, but he didn’t seem worried or scared at all. In fact, he seemed… pissed off.
He swung the bat with a fury that made you more nervous than the zombies did, splattering blood and brains all over the concrete beneath his feet. When only one was left, he hit it over and over, long after it had stopped moving and its head had been reduced to mush.
“Motherfuckers!” he screamed. Then he panted as he regained his composure. He shoved the bat into a sling at his back and went back into the store. Later, he emerged carrying a crate full of stuff. You couldn’t see much of what he had, but you were pretty sure he had found some useful items left behind by looters.
He climbed into his van and left. This time, you were not alarmed by losing sight of him. Clearly the two of you were traveling in the same direction, and even though he was traveling faster in his van, he was apparently making stops along the way, probably to hunt. You’d catch up to him again, you felt certain of it.
You decided to venture into the store. It was very likely that he had cleared any zombies from the interior, and it had been several minutes since the fight outside and no other zombies had appeared.
Inside, the shelves were almost completely bare, save for some trash and items deemed too useless to bother carrying around - toys, a pair of foam flip flops, a cane that looked too flimsy to be a proper mobility aid. You got down on the floor and looked under the shelves. A fellow survivor you met two months ago had told you about this trick. “People tend to be in a hurry when they’re gathering supplies,” he’d explained, “so they end up dropping stuff. Some of it ends up kicked under the shelves and the people who come in later don’t think to check there.”
Beneath the shelf to your right, you found a package of expired gummy bears. You ripped them open and shoved a handful in your mouth, savoring the juicy sweetness. They were the best gummy bears you’d ever eaten. When you had half the pack left, you rolled it down and pushed it into your backpack for later.
Under the shelf to your left, you found a bottle of shampoo that was open and spilling out. You grabbed it and closed the lid. There was still over half a bottle left! You hadn’t shampooed your hair in over a month, so this would be a luxurious treat.
You found a few more items under the other shelves: a single battery that would fit your flashlight (you hoped it wasn’t drained), a small box of bandaids, and (most precious of all), an unopened bottle of sweet tea.
These treasures safely tucked in your backpack, you left the store and headed in the same direction you’d seen the white van leave in. As you passed by the alley you’d hidden in earlier, a pair of pale white hands suddenly reached out from it and grabbed your arm. You jerked free, repulsed by the feeling of cold, damp flesh on your skin.
A single zombie shambled out of the alley, arms raised in front of it as it reached for you again, mouth biting the air in anticipation of tasting human meat. You backed away from it as you slid the hunting knife out of the holster on your thigh. In most cases, you chose not to fight or kill zombies. It was messy and, even in the best circumstances, risky. Plus it was a pain to sanitize your knife in a fire before using it to skin the small animals your sometimes caught.
You looked back at the store. Should you lure it in there and shut the door? But that would leave a rather nasty surprise for the next person who came along and decided to check the store for supplies. You sighed and pulled your backpack off as you continued backing away, keeping a modest distance from the zombie. If there was a struggle, you didn’t want to risk your backpack being ripped or damaged. It was sturdy and easy to carry, and who knew when you’d come across another one? You dropped it on the ground and backed a few more feet away.
Once you felt you were in a good position (plenty of open space in all directions so you could flee if necessary), you stopped and waited for the zombie to get closer. Once it was near enough to almost touch you with its outstretched arms, you quickly ducked around behind it and shoved your knife into its ear. The arms dropped, then the body collapsed onto the pavement. You retrieved the knife and breathed a sigh of relief as you wiped the blade off on the zombie’s shirt.
Poor bastard. He died in the most hideous lime green T-shirt you’d ever seen.
You picked up your backpack and left the small town, excited to drink some of your tea later in the evening.
It took you four days to find the man with the van again, and it was totally by accident. You’d followed the nearby river to a waterfall. You’d grown up in this area, so you remembered there being a waterfall around here somewhere. Figuring it would be a great place to wash up and use that shampoo you found, you followed the sound of rushing water until you spotted it.
The waterfall wasn’t huge, but it was high enough that falling from it would probably be dangerous. The water at the base of it, near where you stood, was only around four feet deep, as you recalled. You and your friends would occasionally go swimming there during particularly hot summers. You remembered picnics under the shade of the trees that lined the river, laughter as you took turns running into the falling water. The memories made you feel numb more than anything else.
As you stood there beside a tree, you heard a loud splash. You ducked behind the tree by reflex, then peeked around it to see the man emerging from the water. Had he been under for the whole three or four minutes you’d been there? All your thoughts suddenly froze in your brain when you realized the man was completely naked. Apparently he also thought this was a good place to bathe.
His body was marred by the same deep purple scarring that covered parts of his face and arms, like a patchwork. There was something oddly mesmerizing about those scars. He was lean, with just the right amount of muscle, and his black hair glistened in the sun as water dripped from the tips and ran down his torso.
As he stepped out of the water, you couldn’t help stealing a glance at the rather impressive appendage between his legs. Even wet and cold, it looked pleasingly large.
The man walked over to small brown bag and pulled out a towel. How had you missed that bag? Regardless, he toweled off and then spread the towel on the ground and sat down. He pulled a can of what looked like beer from the bag and cracked it open. Then he pulled out a tattered paperback book and leaned over on his side.
Was he seriously just going to relax by the river… naked? That’s when you noticed the handle of some sort of weapon sticking out of the bag. He certainly wasn’t defenseless. You’d seen his incredible strength a few days before.
With a start, you realized this was a great opportunity to check out his van. It had to be parked close by, and the man clearly planned to be there for a while. You took one more long look at his well toned body before tearing your eyes away and heading back into the woods.
The trees were tall and their dark green foliage nearly blotted out the sunlight above you. But there was enough light to spot a white van amongst the browns and greens of the forest, so it didn’t take you long to find it.
You approached carefully, remembering the man’s tendency to use traps and systems to alert him of danger. The leaves were moist and slippery under your feet, perfect for remaining silent as you stepped lightly around the van to reach the back. Then your heart dropped to your feet.
The back doors of the van were covered in wire lined with metal cans. It would be physically impossible to open them without causing a huge racket. You checked the side doors, and they were locked tight. You had some experience breaking into vehicles, though you were definitely no expert. You peered in through the window, only to spot more wires and cans tied to the inside of each door.
You sighed and walked away, heading back to the waterfall. When you reached the trees you’d hidden in before, the man was pulling on a faded black T-shirt over his ripped jeans. He looked good in them. He gathered the rest of his belongings into the brown bag, zipped it up, and walked off in the direction of his van. He passed within twenty feet of you, but you were perfectly still behind a tree.
You waited for a while after he left, to be sure he didn’t return for something he forgot, then you moved close to the water, slipped off your backpack and pulled out a few items. A change of clothes, a towel, and the shampoo you’d been saving. You stripped off your clothes, leaving only the thigh holster with your knife snapped inside. You washed the clothes you took off in the water then draped them over low branches in the nearby trees to dry.
Finally, you stepped into the water and dipped your whole head in to get your hair wet. The water was cool, but not enough to be uncomfortable. It looked crystal clear and clean, and it soothed the various cuts and scrapes you’d incurred over the past several days.
You squeezed out some shampoo before tossing the bottle onto the shore and lathering up your hair. It smelled heavenly! Like fresh flowers and honey. You rubbed the lather all over your body, figuring that if men had been using one product for their hair and bodies for years, so could you.
Once you were covered in soap, you went over to the waterfall and stood under it, letting it rinse you clean. It felt so close to an actual shower, you nearly cried.
You played around in the water for a little while, then stepped out and dried off before dressing in clean clothes. You relaxed by the water, just as the man had done, while waiting for your wet clothes to dry. The sun, reaching you now that you were out of the woods, felt warm on your skin.
You left back through the woods, but just before you broke free of the tree line by the highway, you heard the distinctive sound of someone walking. Someone alive. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched, the noise so close that you whirled around to look for the source.
Two men approached from the direction of down river. You could smell them from several yards away. Apparently being so close to the river had not inspired them to wash up, at all. They appeared to be in their mid thirties, both sporting unkempt beards and long, scraggly hair. Both carried backpacks, rifles on their backs, and numerous knives attached to their belts.
These were exactly the sort of people you tried to avoid. In your time on your own, you only approached certain types: women, families, small mixed groups that seemed to get along with each other. You never approached single men, much less multiple men together with no woman in sight.
Usually, you were extremely vigilant. You always spotted other people in plenty of time to hide or flee if they seemed like bad news. In the early weeks of the outbreak, when you’d first ventured out on your own, you’d met a younger girl who was exceptionally good at sneaking around and avoiding being caught by the living or the dead. You’d traveled with her for a while, learning her techniques as well as how to use a knife. Since then, you’d always managed to evade danger. But today you had dropped your guard. Perhaps the shower had been a little too relaxing.
“Hey there,” one of the men said, throwing up his hand in a wave.
You debated whether you should make a run for it or not. They had rifles, so they could probably shoot your legs out from under you if they wanted to. You stood completely still, watching them as they got closer.
“You out here alone, girl?”
“No,” you said, trying to keep your voice firm, “my friends are waiting for me just up the road.”
You hoped they would believe the lie, that they’d rather avoid getting into a fight with a group they knew nothing about.
“That’s funny,” the other man said, “we walked along the road for a long time and we didn’t see anyone waiting for you. Are you sure they didn’t leave you behind?”
His tone made it clear that he didn’t believe you. Shit. How could you get out of this situation? You kept yourself steady and replied. “Really? Maybe they parked in the woods. They do that sometimes, for the shade.”
“Good idea,” the first man said. “These trees sure do block out the sun. They block out a lot of stuff.”
“Well,” you said casually as you turned toward the road, “I better head over there before they get worried and come looking for me.”
You made it a few steps away, walking at a leisurely pace to feign nonchalance, when you heard fast, heavy footsteps running toward you. Glancing back, you saw one of the men rapidly closing the distance, holding up the butt of his rifle like a club.
You broke into a run then, but you didn’t make it far. The rifle struck your head, your vision blurred and darkened, and you felt yourself falling over. You were unconscious before you ever hit the ground.
*****
When you woke up, you heard the sounds of a crackling fire before your eyes adjusted to the bright orange light against the murky darkness of the forest.
You were lying on your side on the ground, close enough to the fire to feel its heat on your skin. Your hands were tied together in front of you with thick, coarse rope that rubbed your wrists in an unpleasant way. One of the men was sitting nearby, skinning a rabbit. The other, the one who had knocked you out, was standing on the other side of the fire, stoking it with a long stick. Your backpack was lying a few feet away from you.
Afternoon had turned to dusk, still light enough to see without a fire or flashlight, but dark enough to make you wary. From your experience, fires in the woods at night were not the best idea. The glow sometimes attracted zombies, so only groups with enough people to keep watch normally lit them. You had stuck to small fires in the daytime, just lit long enough to cook some food or boil some water from the river. Zombies didn’t know to look for smoke.
The two men didn’t seem to be conversing at all, so pretending to be asleep to listen to them was pointless. You pulled yourself to a sitting position, your knees pulled up in front of you. They hadn’t bothered to take your knife from the holster on your thigh. Had they simply not noticed it? Or did they think you were this little of a threat?
The man standing at the fire noticed you were awake and flashed you a smile. It was a repulsive smile, accompanied by dark eyes moving over you hungrily. You could guess why they had taken you captive. You’d heard plenty of stories. You glared at him and steeled yourself for a fight.
“We’ll have dinner first,” he said in his rough voice, gesturing toward his friend with the stick. “Then we’ll have dessert,” he added with a grin, pointing the stick at you. His friend chuckled.
You suddenly felt like throwing up. These men were disgusting, with their leering stares and stinking bodies. The thought of one of them touching you for even a moment sent ripples of revulsion through your entire body.
Shame it wasn’t the handsome black haired stranger with the scars.
Wait… did you seriously just think that? Ugh. You’d been out here in the woods for far too long.
You tried to stay calm as you assessed the situation. The good: you still had your knife, and your hands were tied in front of you instead of behind you. Cutting yourself free would be easy once you got away. You also knew these woods fairly well, and were accustomed to moving around in the dark. The bad: there were two of them, and they were clearly much stronger than you. They both had those rifles too.
You glanced around, taking in the now blazing fire and the positions of the two men in relation to it. You almost smiled. This was nearly identical to a scenario Toga, the girl you’d traveled with, had told you about being in before she met you. And you remembered exactly how she’d said she escaped.
You scooted over a bit, making a show of wincing and leaning as if your backside was sore. You needed to have both men on the other side of the fire from you. The one sitting on the ground cleaning the rabbit would be easy. The other was pacing back and forth, occasionally stirring the branches and logs in the fire. If you timed it just right…
There! As soon as the pacing man got close to the other one, and they were both across the fire from you, you suddenly kicked out both your legs, shoving your boots into the base of the fire. Sparks and embers flew everywhere, flames reached out like glowing hands and crawled along the ground, alighting leaves and twigs. The sitting man yelped and fell backwards, the other one cursed and backed away from the flames, but he was too slow. Fire danced up his pant leg as he screamed and tried to put it out by slapping at it with his hand.
In the chaos you got to your feet, grabbed your backpack off the ground, and ran into the trees. You heard one of the men yelling for the other to go after you, then a screamed reply of “Fuck you, I’m on fire!”
Once you’d ran so far that you could no longer hear their shouts or see the glow from the fire, you huddled next to a tree and used your knife to cut the rope, freeing yourself. You holstered the knife and pulled your backpack onto your shoulders, then looked around for a hiding spot. The woods were getting darker by the minute, but that was an advantage for you, not them.
Eventually you found a tree that was perfect, and you climbed it quietly and carefully. You tucked yourself against the trunk and nestled into the branch, an action deeply familiar to you by now. Around half an hour later, you heard one of the men run by your tree. By that time it was so dark that you would’ve been shocked if he’d spotted you. After that, you only heard the usual sounds of the forest as you drifted off to sleep.
The next morning you didn’t climb down immediately. You used your high vantage point to look out over the area, scanning the woods for any sign of the two men. Would they give up on you, deeming you too much of a hassle to deal with? Or would last night’s events only make them pursue you more doggedly? You couldn’t be sure, but you also couldn’t spend the entire day up in the tree. After watching for a few more minutes and feeling certain the men were not close by, you climbed down to the ground.
You headed to the river first to wash your face and fill your water bottle. You doubted you’d be able to start a fire today, for fear that the smoke would give away your location, so you couldn’t boil the water. You grimaced at the thought of drinking raw river water again, but you’d sip it if you absolutely had to. Having an upset stomach was better than being dead. There was maybe a mouthful of sweet tea left in the bottle you’d found in the store, but you wanted to save it for as long as you could.
When ready, you made your way back through the woods and to the trees that lined the highway. You didn’t dare step out into the open. Too many dangerous folks traveling the roads. But you stayed close enough to be able to see the highway at all times. You rarely saw cars going by these days. The last one you’d seen, besides the white van, had been over a week ago.
You walked through the edge of the forest, moving in the same direction you had been for a few weeks now. You didn’t have a particular destination in mind. You simply wanted to keep moving, keep away from people, stay near the river where you could always get water and sometimes even catch fish, stick to the woods where you could occasionally catch a squirrel or a rabbit. It wasn’t a great life, but it was all you had at the moment.
You’d walked nearly the whole day when you saw a very welcome sight: the white van parked just inside the woods, several yards ahead. You were surprised that you’d caught up with him so quickly, especially after being slowed down by those two assholes last night.
As usual, you approached it carefully. When you got close enough, you realized the back door was standing wide open. No wires or cans had been strung up. The driver’s side door was open as well.
What the hell was going on?
There was no way the man would leave his van like this. Even if he suddenly had to shit, he wouldn’t leave his stash of supplies completely unguarded. Had he been attacked? The image of the two men flashed in your mind. The black haired man was strong, but they had guns. They could have forced him out of the van. But in that case, where were they?
You circled around the van from a distance, looking for signs or clues as to what had happened. You strained your ears to listen for footsteps, but you heard nothing. Could the man have been attacked by zombies? Maybe he stepped out to pee, was suddenly surrounded, and had to run deeper into the woods to get away.
Mind racing with possible explanations, you decided to watch the van for a little while, in case someone came for it. After nearly an hour, the woods were getting dark again. If you were going to make a move, now was the time. You took a deep breath, then walked over to the back of the van. You peered inside, and to your hungry, desperate eyes, it looked like the holy grail. The entire back of the van was filled to the brim with supplies.
You climbed up into it and looked around in wonder. There were cases full of canned goods, bottled water, snacks, and even a few packs of beer. There were boxes with things written on them like, “bandages,” “batteries,” and “soap”. Curiously, there were several boxes of black hair dye. It almost looked like the storeroom of some convenience store.
All of this was too suspicious. You didn’t dare grab a lot of stuff. What if the man really did have to suddenly relieve himself? Or had to run from zombies but was circling back around to his van? You decided to be cautious and grab only a small number of items, things he probably wouldn’t even notice. Then you could watch the van from an afar and grab more stuff if he never came back.
You opened your backpack and shoved in two bottles of water, a can of peaches, a can of pork and beans, a bag of potato chips, and two chocolate candy bars. The carbs would come in very handy. You’d had so little energy lately. Pleased with your choices, you zipped up your backpack and pulled it on, then turned to exit the van.
You stopped dead in your tracks. Standing right outside the van, staring at you with one hand on his hip, was the black haired man. He looked at you with a deadpan expression and said, “Looks like I caught myself a thief.”
Fortune Favors The Bold | Chapter Index & Playlist
Premise: (Dabi/F!Reader) Lucky. The word left a bitter taste in your mouth. You were a villain by circumstance. It’s not like you were evil by nature, just severely unfortunate. Well – that’s what everyone kept telling you at least. Wherever you went, disaster followed close behind. All thanks to your selfish Quirk: you were the luckiest bastard on earth – almost always at the expense of the people around you.
If you were so damn lucky, how did you always end up in these batshit crazy situations? Being branded a villain by the general populace wasn’t enough – no, this time, your Quirk landed you directly in the path of the infamous League of Villains.
Contains: Swearing, Gambling, Alcohol Use, Drug Mention, Smoking, Hurt & Comfort, Semi-Slow Burn, Minor Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Found Family LOV, Overhaul Arc, Slice Of Life But Make It Villains, Power Fantasy Elements, A Series Of Very Unfortunate Events, Dabi Not Understanding His Goddamn Feelings, Dabi Pines So Hard He Feels Like He's Going Crazy, Reader Is A Villain Who Does Villain Things, I Intend To Rip Your Heart Out A Little Respectfully ♡, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
If you would like to be tagged, let me know! Just reply to this post or send me a message.
[Ao3 Portal]
Ch 1: Opening Gambit
Ch 2: Trial By Fire
Ch 3: The League of Normal Fucking People
Interlude I: Payload Princess
Ch 4: Honeypot
Interlude II: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
Ch 5: Weaponized Pretty Privilege
Ch 6: Vanishing Act
Interlude III: Ways To Say 'I Hate You'
💦 Ch 7: Farewell, Good Fortune!
💦💦 Ch 8: They Danced
💦 Ch 9: Delayed Indulgence
Interlude IV: Little Miss Fortune
💦💦💦 Ch 1O: Secrets Among the Sheets
💦💦 Ch 11: Homecoming
Ch 12: Trojan Horse Tactics
Ch 13: Shit Hitting all Kinds of Fans
Interlude V: Banned From Game Night
💦💦💦💦💦 Ch 14: Crescendo
Epilogue: Epilogue
💦= NSFW level/5
Spotify playlist: BEWARE these songs are in order of chapter. Some are just a vibe, others might be more telling of what is to come (: proceed at your own peril
Fortune Favors The Bold | Chapter Index & Playlist
Premise: (Dabi/F!Reader) Lucky. The word left a bitter taste in your mouth. You were a villain by circumstance. It’s not like you were evil by nature, just severely unfortunate. Well – that’s what everyone kept telling you at least. Wherever you went, disaster followed close behind. All thanks to your selfish Quirk: you were the luckiest bastard on earth – almost always at the expense of the people around you.
If you were so damn lucky, how did you always end up in these batshit crazy situations? Being branded a villain by the general populace wasn’t enough – no, this time, your Quirk landed you directly in the path of the infamous League of Villains.
Contains: Swearing, Gambling, Alcohol Use, Drug Mention, Smoking, Hurt & Comfort, Semi-Slow Burn, Minor Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Found Family LOV, Overhaul Arc, Slice Of Life But Make It Villains, Power Fantasy Elements, A Series Of Very Unfortunate Events, Dabi Not Understanding His Goddamn Feelings, Dabi Pines So Hard He Feels Like He's Going Crazy, Reader Is A Villain Who Does Villain Things, I Intend To Rip Your Heart Out A Little Respectfully ♡, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
If you would like to be tagged, let me know! Just reply to this post or send me a message.
[Ao3 Portal]
Ch 1: Opening Gambit
Ch 2: Trial By Fire
Ch 3: The League of Normal Fucking People
Interlude I: Payload Princess
Ch 4: Honeypot
Interlude II: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
Ch 5: Weaponized Pretty Privilege
Ch 6: Vanishing Act
Interlude III: Ways To Say 'I Hate You'
💦 Ch 7: Farewell, Good Fortune!
💦💦 Ch 8: They Danced
💦 Ch 9: Delayed Indulgence
Interlude IV: Little Miss Fortune
💦💦💦 Ch 1O: Secrets Among the Sheets
💦💦 Ch 11: Homecoming
Ch 12: Trojan Horse Tactics
Ch 13: Shit Hitting all Kinds of Fans
Interlude V: Banned From Game Night
💦💦💦💦💦 Ch 14: Crescendo
Epilogue: Epilogue
💦= NSFW level/5
Spotify playlist: BEWARE these songs are in order of chapter. Some are just a vibe, others might be more telling of what is to come (: proceed at your own peril
“You love him—everything he was, everything he is, and everything he will be.”
Fandom: My Hero Academia
Pairing: Dabi x Reader
Words: 13.9k
A/N: I’m a slut for Dabi. Scratch that—I am a MASSIVE slut for Dabi. And that couch scene in 6x17 only solidified my obsession with him. I have no excuse for this fic, except that it’s angsty, filthy, and way too long for its own good. I just have too many thoughts on Dabi as both a character and a love interest and I shamelessly projected myself onto Reader the entire time writing this. I wanna hold him and tell him it’s all gonna be okay, but at the same time I wanna fuck his brains out like there’s no tomorrow. The second half will be uploaded later this week, once I finish editing it. I hope you enjoy! (Now let me go hide my face in shame…)
Also a huge thank you to my dear friend @lostinwildflowers, who’s just as thirsty for Dabi as I am! Birch, it’s because of you cheering me on that this fic finally got finished! (And further down the rabbit hole we go!)
Warnings: 18+ only (minors please DNI), fem-bodied reader, spoilers for Season 6 (up to Episode 17 at least), Reader and Dabi may or may not be in the healthiest mindset to fuck right now (that won’t stop em though), Reader is somewhat dependent on Dabi, oral sex (f. receiving), face sitting, vaginal sex, spanking, quirk use, branding, crying (Reader is a bit of a crybaby but she means well), hair pulling, fingering, blood tears, Dabi’s an asshole and doesn’t want to admit that Reader actually loves and cares for him
Part I | Part II
-
You’ve been to this mansion exactly three times before.
The first time was in the middle of the fall, when the leaves were crisp and the winds were brisk. It was an old shabby building in the middle of nowhere, worn out and run down by the countless inhibitors that came before you. At the time Dabi had brushed it off, claiming they were no longer a threat to you, that it was now the perfect little getaway from the rest of the world. (As long as the rest of the League was off elsewhere, of course.)
He had wrapped you up in his arms and pulled you down on that ratty old couch, the one with faded gold carvings and fluff poking out of the torn cushions. You had been a little wary at first; it wasn’t exactly the most pleasant smell in the world. But he kept you busy with his burning kisses and wandering hands, and eventually you dozed off right there in his arms, with his chest pressed against your back.
none of the following works belong to me. credits to rightful authors. contains mature content, aimed for +18 audiences. reader discretion is advised. most of these works are f! or afab! reader. ALSO! minors + blank + ageless blogs will be blocked.
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ You and Touya parted on bad terms. Six years later, he spots you visiting his father, a red-headed kid in tow. He’s determined to find out what you’ve been up to while he’s been gone.
cw. angst. single parent au. single parent, angst, violence, child loss, implied drug use
an ode to winter. ──── 14.1k
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ touya todoroki had broken a lot of things, your heart, promises, your window a few times, but you swore he’d never leave your child feeling that way. but when he wants back into your life, will he take no for an answer? And do you even want to say it?
cw. angst, fluff, smut. MANGA SPOILERS IN THE EXTENDED ENDING. manga war arc!au, single-parent!au, unplanned pregnancy!au. heavy smut, ( literally 5k of it ), mentions of pregnancy, mentions of semi-toxic!relationships, struggling with parenting, blackmail ??, unprotected sex ( wrap it before you tap it, losers ), handjobs, oral sex ( female receiving ), fingering ( female receiving ), choking, branding, squirting, spit!kink, needy touya
♡ antecedent. ──── 16k+
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ following Touya’s arrest you try to navigate the world as it is flipped on its head. torn between your loyalty to him and what’s best for your son, new family is formed and hope is found.
cw. angst, hurt/comfort, sorta fluff. single (?) parent au. canon divergence:spoilers for touya backstory and chapters 349 onwards. AFAB reader (referred to as ‘mama’), established (kinda toxic) relationship,secret family au (post arrest), original child character (‘Kaiyo’; he is your shared biological child), parent todoroki touya, mentions of canon attempted suicide and canon child abuse, themes of generational trauma, family feels, todoroki family centric, villain rehabilitation, dealing with trauma and recovery, second chances
autumn chill. ──── complete
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ You find yourself needing a place to stay after setting an apartment on fire.
cw. angst, smut. villain au, blood, panic attack, death (not main characters), 18+
biting down. ──── 5.3k
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ He’s fast as he weaves through the trees, breath hot against your neck as he runs as if he has any need for breathing at all. You feel your shoulders drop in relief, tucking your head into the crook of his neck, the texture of his skin a comfort to you as you think about what could have happened if he hadn’t found you. Dabi is a vampire, a real, live (debatable), blood-sucking, sunlight-repulsed, creature of the night. You think you might be in love with him.
cw. f!reader, explicit content, some angst, violence, vampires, Dabi picks reader up, detailed descriptions of blood and gore (lots and lots of blood), blood kink, self inflicted harm (reader cuts her palm open), Dabi is a little mean sometimes, biting (he bites ur neck, thighs, chest he drinks ur blood he’s a vampire), pain play (biting to puncture skin, biting and drinking from already open wounds), drinking each other’s blood, fingering, (bloody) oral f!receiving, bloody sex, unprotected sex, marking, bruising, corny vamp dialogue
touya dabi isn't as smooth as he thinks he is.
can you feel my heart beating like a hammer? ──── 5k
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ You watch from your spot, shoulders tense as you anticipate the arrival of yet another creepy clown or zombie when you see him.
He’s not like the other actors. He’s not quick with his movements and doesn’t yell or jump at anyone. His terror lies in the fact that he does none of those things, that he stands across from you and stares.
And then he grins.
Your stomach turns but not in fear.
cw. f!reader, explicit content, scare actor!dabi, Dabi is touya (quite literally he is not called Dabi in this at all ajhssjsjjss), sex in public, fearplay (kind of), multiple orgasms, overstimulation (very brief), oral f!receiving, fingering, multiple instances where Dabi rests his hand on ur neck but never chokes u, biting (shoulder, neck), ‘baby’ and ‘angel’ as pet names, use of ‘good girl’, frightening (debatable im not that good) depictions of scare actors and haunts, one description of gory makeup, fake weapons
✧ count for me. ──── 3.8k
cw. punishments, shibari, blowjob, face fucking, rough sex, squirting, degrading, some praise, dabi is mean to reader, spanking, minor burning/branding, it's all consensual.
hardly human. ──── 3.2k
cw. Touya x Cisfem Selkie!Reader. degradation (slut etc), praise, fingering, unprotected sex, maybe slight coercion but not really, maybe a little angst but mostly smut, bit of plot.
♡ heaven for nonbelievers. ──── 11k
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ Fire is many things – forgiving is not one of them. Dabi finds absolution elsewhere. Allusions to domestic abuse(not to y/n), mentions of sexual abuse (not to y/n), mentions periods, mentions of food, explicit content, y/n can’t catch a break; sharing space, strange domesticity, gray morality to less gray morality, sometimes grief has teeth
cw. angst, smut, hurt/comfort. villain au + strangers to lovers
♡ I’m melting in your eyes, like my first time that I caught fire. ──── 13k+ (½)
cw. pro hero!au. explicit language, fluff, angst, shouto is a menace, touya has tattoos instead of scars
kingdom of ashes. ──── 12k
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟When you are suddenly uprooted from your life to enter an arranged marriage with Prince Touya you are unprepared for how greatly he defies your expectations, nor for how quickly you fall for him.
cw. AFAB FEM reader (referred to as ‘wife’ ‘daughter’ and 'my lady’), royalty au, prince todoroki touya, arranged marriage, no quirks, historical setting, perceived unrequited love, fictional contraceptives, horseback riding, fluff, angst, protected vaginal sex, vaginal oral sex (reader receiving), dubcon, strangers to lovers, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, canonical child abuse, bathing together, outdoor sex, talk of not having children/preventing pregnancy
leather cushions. ──── 6.7k
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ touya hates the couch in the living room, but for you, he’d sit on it every second of the day.
cw. smut. quirkless au, college au, roommates au, best friends to lovers. shitty frat/rich boy!keigo, reader tells keigo no & he ignores it, soft, sweet, consensual sex w touya.
♡ legacy of hurt. ──── 4.5k
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ touya has enclosed his heart behind a thick wall with refusal to let anyone see it. but you are an unrelenting storm, and damned by your persistence, even the strongest cliff can break if weathered enough.
cw. NSFT, GN reader, friends to lovers, Dabi POV, pre-LOV, implied PTSD, mention of child abuse, angst, hurt/comfort, blood (he cries during sex), spit, unprotected sex, emotional sex, no power dynamic
secrets. ──── complete
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ Life isn’t a fairy-tale and you find your soulmate through unconventional means.
cw. angst, smut. soulmate au. death mention, violence, spoilers (?) – set in PLF arc, abuse mention (not directed at reader)
she washes all of my wounds for me. ──── 15.2k
⌜ ୨୧ ⌟ “I called you by your name. Is that okay?”
“I don’t know.”
And it isn’t because he doesn’t want you to know his name. He’s already announced it to the world. Of course, you’re going to know it. It certainly isn’t because he hates the way your lips so easily form the two syllables. It isn’t because he no longer wants to associate himself with the name.
He’s simply afraid of his greedy soul becoming attached to the way you somehow manage to make something that used to cause his skin to crawl to now bring his heart a peace he’s never known before he saw your face.
cw. fem!reader. Smut (18+ only, minors DNI), fem reader (AFAB anatomy, femme pet names/pronouns), major spoilers for manga chapter 290, heavy religious imagery of angels/gods/heaven, one (1) instance of sir kink, so so much hurt/comfort, several mentions of past family abuse and trauma, mild blood and gore (Dabi tending to new burns/scars), verbal argument that has Dabi breaking furniture (reader does not get hurt) and being an overall asshole, alcohol use (Dabi is drunk and emotional), soft desperate-to-be-loved-but-too-scared-to-ask Dabi, oral and fingering (f!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, very soft and emotional smut
soft interlude. ──── 1.4k
cw. AFAB GN reader (called ‘angel’ once), NSFT, established relationship, fluff and smut, bath sex, vaginal fingering (mostly clit stimulation; reader receiving), heavy petting, quirk use
unprofessional. ──── 5.1k
cw. smut. modern / business au. fem! reader, blow jobs, cum swallowing, humping, natsuo walking in on yall lmao, unprofessional work relationships, ceo’s son! dabi aka touya
✿ You and Touya parted on bad terms. Six years later, he spots you visiting his father, a red-headed kid in tow. He’s determined to find out what you’ve been up to while he’s been gone.
Touya x Fem!Reader
✿ Single parent
Updated Tuesdays and Fridays, any times indicated are in PST
Overall themes of angst. If you’ve read any of my other work, angst with a happy ending is my usual MO. Warnings marked at the beginning of applicable chapters: violence, child loss, implied drug use
Warnings: +18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! This series contains: HEAVY Noncon, smut, bullying, manhandling, penetration, binding, threatening, creampie, breeding kink degradation, humiliation, abuse, violence, anxiety, spoilers, trauma, bruises, choking, spit play, cussing, dirty talk, oral sex (m.receiving) cum swallowing, semi public, noncon selfie, mention of alcohol, manipulation, near death experience, wound, bleeding, scars, nightmares
Summary: After joining the League of Villains, you started facing bullying from a certain arsonist. Little by little the harassment grew to the point of physical violence that culminated to you being his personal fucktoy.
A.N.: If there’s any warnings missing, please let me know!
Disclaimer: Characters mentioned belong to Kohei Horikoshi
