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summary: satoru wants you back but canβt break his bad habits. when things get out of hand, you call the only person you can think of.
tw: drug abuse, alcohol use, unhealthy relationships
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when they were in your yard, standing around, quietly kicking dirt while he loitered your doorstep all but begging on his knees for you to come back to him, they didnβt look like everyday menaces to society.
they didnβt look like they would hurt themselves or anybody else recreationally, they only looked like a band of less than merry men down on their luck. but you knew better.
to be fair, they were down on their luck. life had kicked the shit out of them once, twice, and everyday of their lives. they never seemed to catch a break, but they couldβve been anything. anything in this miserable world of heartbreak and anxiety, and still, they chose to be self destructive and add into the poison that so many others already added to the world. they did bad things and somewhere deep down, you were sure that they had the heart and the capacity to be good people, but that would require wanting to be. and they didnβt. none of them did.
they just wanted to eat, drink, and ruin, and that was exactly why your heart dropped at the fact that he would actually bring them here.
you let him give his agonized speech, knowing cutting in would do no good, he wouldnβt stop until he was finished, and then you ended it there. it took some back and forth and you ran the risk of an argument with such an unhinged man, but you couldnβt have them hanging around any longer.
βand satoru,β
you called to him before he could make it past your porch. βplease donβt bring them to my house again.β
you couldnβt send him away without slipping that in there, but you really didnβt want to. it risked starting him up all over again.
and it did. he turned to face you dead on with newfound agitation in his eyes. βyou serious? Theyβre not gonna hurt you,β he said, much too loudly for your liking and extending his arm to vaguely gesture towards them as if talking about them out loud wasnβt bad enough. it caught their attention and your breath got caught in her throat.
had they been insulted or offended at what you were insinuating about them, who knows what they would have done. but, luckily for you, they ignored it and went back to shooting the breeze amongst themselves.
βyouβre my girl, they wouldnβt do that to me.β
there was so, so much wrong with what he just said, but you didnβt have the time to correct him. beneath every substance and emotion flowing through him, weighing him down, he had to know that you werenβt a thing anymore. that you couldnβt be. that he had changed their lives forever without a second thought.
βI mean it, satoru, and justβ¦ please just go home.β
you didnβt wait for a response, you didnβt want to know or hear what he had to say next. you closed the door on him and locked it, falling limp against it while satoru stood slouched in the same spot, staring at the bottom of the door, hating himself more than he did five minutes ago.
it was scary. every time he thought he couldnβt loathe himself anymore than he already did, the hate within him took itself to new levels, levels that he didnβt even understand, levels that no mentally stable person could ever achieve. levels that genuinely scared him.
you were right. beneath everything, there was coherent thinking. he hated how he felt and he didnβt want to want to die, and that was reality. but he had lost touch with reality a long time ago and it was now buried beneath layers and layers of pain and horrible choices.
βyou are my home.β
he mumbled miserably to no one because no one was there to hear him anymore. with a sigh, he turned back to his friends and cleared your porch.
βnightβs young,β he muttered lifelessly. βwhat place we hitting up first?β
he took her newest wave of rejection really hard, but that was subjective.
he took it hard every time you rejected him.
every time he got no reply to a text, every time you missed or declined a call, his mood would plummet.
but there was something about how you were so okay seeing his face and sending him away anyway. when he saw you, it was like he was being born all over again. to this day, he doesnβt know of anyone more beautiful than you. you took his breath away, you made his heart stop, you made him wanna fall to his knees and weep and beg until you knelt beside him and held him, fuck, what he would give to be held by you again.
if the roles were reversed, he felt nearly certain that all it would take for you to gain his forgiveness and a return to normalcy was to see your face alone. heβd crumble and surrender to you because there was nothing in the world that he loved even half as much as he loves you.
so what did this mean? what could it mean, it couldnβt mean that you didnβt love him, he knew you did. so what was all of this about, why were you turning away from him, why did you turn away from him to begin with, didnβt you understand how much he needed you? he fuckin needed you more than he needed air and you were being such a cold bitch.
sometimes he really felt like he hated you. heβd stay up at night wanting to curse your name and replace all of the love in his heart for you for cold, hard hate, but he couldnβt. he couldnβt ever hate you. you were the only reason he was still here. heβd push the limits but he always made sure he stayed alive. stay alive just in case you decided to accept him back. just on the off chance youβd come back to him and make him whole again.
still. before that, he was reckless and driven by his frustrations and pain. he always took care to stay alive, but sometimes he cut it a little close.
he went out on an enraged escapade and found himself inching towards deathβs doorstep. they separated sometime past midnight and he found himself stumbling through the rain, eventually crawling through the streets until he found a phone booth. he emptied his pockets for one phone call and dialed the only number he knew by heart.
it wasnβt light work. not by a long shot. he couldnβt walk. not on his own, and even with him doing the best he could, using every last bit of his own strength, you were still practically holding the entirety of his upper body up off of the concrete while you trudged through the rain to your car.
not a person around for miles because no one was crazy enough to be out in this setting willingly, and that just made things all the more creepy, but there was no danger lurking in the shadows. you were helping the danger into the passenger seat of your car.
as soon as you was sure that all of his limbs were tucked in the car, you shut the door and circled the front of it, hurrying into the driverβs seat and shutting the door with a sigh.
he needed his seatbelt but you needed a breath. he was heavier than he looked when he was incapacitated. while you locked the doors and leaned over to pull his seatbelt over him, you wondered just what kind of trouble he had gotten into tonight.
those friends of his who he seemed to think so highly of earlier had left him high and dry, dunk, and high on the streets. the shitty part was that as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning, heβd be headed right back over there. with them. while you settled back into your own seat to put your own seatbelt on and get them the hell away from this corner of nowhere, satoru lolled his head from side to side, putting all of his focus into stopping it to look at you.
you noticed his gaze lingering as you threw the car into drive. you only glanced in his direction before pulling off from the curb.
βChrist, Satoru.β
you grumbled just above your breath, and, like the little shit he was, he smiled. a hazy, heartbreaking smile.
βbeautiful,β he slurred. βmβgirlβs so pretty.β
he smiled wider to himself, lifting a heavy arm to brush the backs of his fingers against your cheek.
βknew youβd come.β
a ragged breath gave the illusion of your frame trembling. you had already shuddered once when you felt his touch.
it had been a long time. you couldnβt say you didnβt want to feel him, but not like this. not under these circumstances.
ββs cause you still love me.β he continued, carrying the conversation on without any help from you. βyou do, donβt you?β
even if he were sober, it wouldβve been equally impossible to get a good read of you expression. he was saying some pretty heavy things, all things considered, but you werenβt giving much of a reaction to any of them. not a smile nor a grimace, not showing any signs of elation or annoyance, you stared through the windshield bearing no expression at all.
you conveyed a particular sense of numbness that he failed to pick up on. maybe you were tired. maybe youβd talk more in the morning. maybe you were so overcome with emotion that you couldnβt find the right words, but in satoru land, all was well and the pieces were falling right into place.
back at the house, you dragged him inside as soon as you could get him off the car. you made sure to secure all the locks just in case his doting friends decided to come looking for him here.
they knew exactly where to go seeing as he so graciously showed them the way earlier.
dragging his body all the way up the stairs was a long and tedious task, easily the hardest part of the entire thing since his body was almost completely limp by now. he helped with about two steps total the entire way up and so you were on your own for the rest of the way.
he smelled bad. like smoke from all kinds of substances but also smoke from fire.
where there wasnβt soot on him, there were scrapes and cuts. blood and countless open wounds. nothing too bad, but still.
by the time you stumbled into your bathroom with him, tears had already welled up in your eyes thinking of everything that he couldβve been getting himself into before he called.
you wondered while you debated whether or not to take his clothes off before you decidedly shoved him in her tub to let him cool off if he was tired of any of this yet.
wasnβt it tiring taking to the streets with the intention of getting hurt? what was he trying to prove? why did he hate himself enough to do this to himself? enough to put you through the things that he put you through?
it hurt to see him in this state, out of it enough to actually smile once you got him settled in the tub. fully clothed, covered in God knows what, hurt more than he wouldnβt even realize til morning, smiling because he was with you.
at long last, after feeling cold, hard rejection, you werenβt leaving his side now. instead, you were tending to his every need, breathlessly stumbling back over to the tub to turn the water on.
he didnβt even jump when the first cold drops hit his skin. it was warm by the time it started to soak his clothes and then he just sat there, holding onto his wakefulness by the tips of his fingers while the blood and nameless gunk rinsed from his hair, clothes and skin and ran fast into the drain.
your tub would be stained by the time you pulled him out, leaving yet another mess of his for you to clean up. you had placed him strategically and took care to set him where he couldnβt move from his sitting position and he wouldnβt drown in the running water either. he was safe and slipping out of consciousness for now. so, you did the only thing that you really felt like doing for that moment in time. you pushed yourself off the side of the tub and tried not to let your heart break completely as you watched him slowly fall asleep.
you backed away from him until you couldnβt anymore, sliding down into a sit when your back touched the wall. there was no reason to think that he may have been watching or that he could even make sense of what you were doing or feeling, so you let it all out on your bathroom floor.
you cried with your knees hugged to your chest, watching him while you let every emotion inside of you come to pass, and you cried until you couldnβt anymore. after a while, you shut off the water.
the stench of all of the mischief that he had gotten into seemed to lessen significantly from his vessel and your bathroom, but you had no energy to lug him out of the tub. he had no clothes here. not anymore. you wanted to leave the bathroom and sleep. on your mattress or right there where your feet stood on the floor, it made no difference, you were just so damned tired in every sense of the word.
he was too damn big to be lugging around like you were a grown man of equal physique. you couldnβt keep doing this, not while you was already running on E.
the digital clock on your bedside read half past two and it was an unforgiving hour to make a phone call, but you didnβt see that you had many other options. the time read 2:32 am but suguru picked up on the third ring. it was a miracle that you still had his number saved.
βy/n?β
even more miraculous that he still had your number saved. you hadnβt talked much at all since you dropped satoru and he went even further off the rails.
βitβs late, is everything alright?
where you thought that you had finally pulled yourself together, your tears instantly welled up at the question and your heart dropped. you didnβt know how much he knew about all that his best friend had gotten up to these days and the thought of being the one to drop it on him broke your heart.
while you did your very best to control the emotional outburst that seemed to overcome you, suguru did his best to talk sensible in your ear and calm you down enough to understand what was going on. when that failed and all that he managed to get out of you was where you were, he threw on a t-shirt, scooped up his keys and hurried over.
while suguru made his way to you, you watched satoru sleep in your tub. he never stirred and he looked almost peaceful if not for his clothes and his disheveled hair and skin. it made you wonder if a bathtub was the most comfortable place that he had found to rest in a while, but that was none of your business.
while you were at it, it was none of suguruβs business either. you were reminded of that when he knocked quickly and firmly at your front door. this was probably a mistake, an act of dragging an innocent bystander into a mess that you kept throwing yourself into. either way. suguru was already there and you would leave it up to him if he wanted to leave you with your hands full. if he wanted to, that was fair, this wasnβt either oneβs mess to clean up, but suguru was never that kind of guy.
satoru was his best friend, whether he would presently agree with that statement or not, but the two of you werenβt just friends by extension. he cared about you too, which was why he was absolutely devastated to see the state that you were in when you pulled the door open.
the wet spots on your clothes were almost fully dry, but the blood and gunk that transferred from satoruβs skin and clothes to yours were still present and evident, say nothing of your tear stained cheeks and the tears still in your eyes.
βhey,β he greeted cautiously. βwhatβs going on, are you hurt?β he shut the door behind him and made quick work of assessing you as well as he could, collecting all that he could from face value.
you shook your head, sniffling and tightening your arms around your frame.
βno. not me, but, suguruβ¦ we need to talk.β
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A/N: LOL I donβt even think the poll is over. first post in a while, kinda nervous π
Anakin needs his princess to run away with him and not get married to the Senator ΰ¨ΰ§
MINORS DNI 18+ | Kinktober Day Seven β
Kinks: dacryphilia (crying), cheating, breeding
The palace had never felt so heavy.
Gold-draped halls, stained-glass windows throwing jewel tones across marble floors, flowers spilling from every archway, all of it was meant to celebrate.
To make you look like a jewel yourself, glittering and untouchable, ready to be given away.
But every laugh from the courtiers felt like mockery. Every toast to your βbright futureβ sounded like a funeral dirge. And every time Senator Deren smiled, dull as stone, proper as protocol, rehearsed, your stomach turned.
You should have been in the great hall beside him, hand poised delicately on his sleeve, nodding at his endless speeches about trade routes and tariffs. Instead, youβd stolen a breath of freedom in the gardens, skirts gathered in your hands, the scent of lilacs thick in the air. The veil pinned into your hair tugged uncomfortably with every breeze.
And then you felt it. That familiar gravity.
You didnβt need to turn. You knew he was there.
Anakin Skywalker lingered in the shadows of the marble archway, his presence as unmistakable as the heat of twin suns. Dark robes hung heavy on his frame, gloves flexing at his sides, eyes burning holes into you.
He wasnβt supposed to be here, youβd told him not to come, begged him not to, yet he haunted every corridor of the palace, appearing at the edges of your vision, as if the Force itself bent to his obsession.
He didnβt speak at first. Just watched you with that molten gaze, jaw tight, chest heaving like every breath was a battle.
βYou shouldnβt be here,β you whispered, voice brittle.
βYouβre marrying him.β His voice cut, ragged, like glass dragged across stone. βSomeβsome politician who can barely look at you without shaking. You think he can protect you? Touch you the way you deserve?β
βAnakin.β You shook your head, fingers tightening on your skirts. βWeβve had this conversation. I canβtββ
βNo,β he bit out, pushing off the arch to crowd closer. The heat of him swallowed you whole, the force of his presence as suffocating as it was intoxicating. βYou wonβt. Not canβt. Wonβt.β
His hand caught your wrist before you could step back, grip trembling with restraint. The familiar burn prickled at your lashes, tears rising fast, because you hated the way your body betrayed you, hated the way his voice scraped you raw, hated the way it hurt to tell him no.
He saw it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the underside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered. His jaw tightened. βDonβt cry,β he murmured, almost a plea. Then softer, darker: βNoβ¦ cry for me.β
The words broke something loose.
A whimper clawed up your throat, your tears spilling hot down your cheeks. Anakin inhaled sharply, eyes widening, like the sight wrecked him and saved him all at once. His other hand rose, cupping your face, thumb smearing your tears like he wanted them tattooed into his skin.
βYouβre mine,β he whispered harshly, forehead pressing to yours. βYou know it. Iβll make you remember it.β
Your knees buckled, body trembling as he forced you back against the cool stone. You whispered his name again, cracked and desperate, the taste of salt still on your lips. βAni, pleaseβ¦ Iβm getting marriedββ
He cut you off with a sound, low and pained. βNot to him. Not when I can give you everything he canβt. Iβll put my child in you, princess. Let everyone see who you belong to.β
The words sank into your bones, hot and poisonous, and you hated how your body lit up, how the tears only came harder. His lips hovered over yours, not kissing yet, just breathing the confession into your mouth.
βYouβll carry me with you. Always. No matter how hard you try to run.β His words were a vow, a curse, the dark promise that had always coiled beneath his Jedi restraint.
The stone wall bit into your back through thin silk as Anakinβs body pressed flush against yours, erasing any distance, any pretence. His gloved hand slid from your face down the column of your throat, possessive and rough, stopping just above the frantic pulse at the base.
"Say it," he demanded, his voice a low rasp against your damp cheek. His breath was hot, smelling of ozone and something wild, untamed. "Tell me you feel it too. That thisβ" he ground his hips against yours, the hard ridge of his arousal unmistakable even through layers of fabric, "βis the only truth."
A fresh wave of tears spilled over, hot and shameful, tracking paths through the dusting of pollen on your skin. He watched them fall, his blue eyes darkening with a hunger that wasn't cruel, but terrifyingly intense.
"Yes," he breathed, almost reverent. "Let me see it. Let me taste it." His thumb swept across your lower lip, catching a tear, then pressed the salty wetness against your tongue.
The intimacy was shocking, a violation deeper than any touch.
You gasped, choking on the taste of your own sorrow mixed with the metallic hint of his glove. "They'll find us," you whispered, the protest weak, drowned out by the frantic hammering of your heart against your ribs.
Distant murmur of the wedding feast felt galaxies away.
Anakinβs laugh was a harsh scrape, devoid of humor. "Let them." His free hand slid down, bunching the delicate silk of your skirt, fingers seeking the heat beneath. "Let them see what he'll never have."
His touch burned through the thin barrier of your underclothes, finding the slickness waiting there, a betrayal your body screamed despite your mind's feeble denials.
A sob ripped from your throat, sharp and involuntary. "Aniβ" His name dissolved into a gasp as his fingers pressed harder, circling the swollen bud beneath damp silk. The friction was deliberate, punishing, a reminder of the power coiled in those scarred hands.
He watched your face crumple, tears streaming freely now. "Beautiful," he murmured, the word rough with possession. His thumb traced the wet trails down your cheekbone. "Every tear is mine. Proof." His gaze dropped to where his hand worked beneath your skirts. "Proof that your body knows its master." The cool stone scraped your bare shoulder blades as he shoved the fabric higher.
Humid garden air kissed your exposed thighs. You squeezed your eyes shut, but darkness only amplified the sensations: the calloused drag of his glove against your inner skin, the slick sounds of your own arousal, the choked whimpers you couldn't swallow down.
His breath hitched, ragged against your temple. "Open your eyes," he commanded, voice thick. "Look at me while you cry for him⦠knowing it's me making you feel this."
You forced your lids open. His face was inches away, etched with a raw, desperate need that mirrored the turmoil inside you. The Jedi restraint was gone, stripped bare to reveal the possessive, demanding core beneath. His fingers plunged deeper, curling inside you with brutal intimacy. You arched off the wall, a cry tearing loose, part pain, part shattering pleasure.
Tears blurred your vision, but you saw the fierce triumph flare in his eyes.
"Feel that?" he growled, his thrusting fingers relentless. "That's where I belong. Where I'll put my seed." His forehead pressed hard against yours. "Deep inside. Filling you. Marking you." The possessive claim vibrated through your bones. "He'll touch you after this," Anakin hissed, his breath hot and furious against your lips. "But he'll only ever feel me."
That cruel promise sent another wave of tears cascading down, mingling with the sweat on your skin. He caught them with his tongue, tracing the salty path along your jawline, down to the frantic pulse in your throat.
His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, not biting, but promising. "You'll carry my child," he vowed again, words thick with dark certainty. "And every time you look at it, you'll remember this moment. Remember who claimed you." His free hand fumbled urgently with the fastenings of his own trousers, the sound harsh in the lilac-scented air. The hard, heated length of him pressed against your inner thigh, demanding entry.
Distant music from the hall seemed to mock the obscenity unfolding in the shadows. You were trembling violently, caught between the stoneβs chill and the furnace heat of him, between terror and a terrifying, traitorous hunger. His fingers withdrew, leaving you achingly empty, only to be replaced instantly by the blunt, insistent pressure of his cockhead against your entrance.
"Look at me," he rasped, his voice strained with barely leashed control. "Look at me when I take what's mine."
The blunt pressure became an inexorable invasion. You cried out, a raw, broken moan muffled against his shoulder as he surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
Tears flooded anew, hot rivers tracking through the pollen on your cheeks, dripping onto the dark fabric covering his chest. Anakin groaned, deep and guttural, his hips pinning yours to the unforgiving stone. He didn't move.
Just held himself impossibly deep, letting you feel the thick, throbbing heat of him inside you, a claiming as undeniable as a brand.
"See?" His whisper was ragged against your ear, punctuated by the frantic pulse hammering in his throat. His gloved hand tangled in your hair, forcing your head back to expose your tear-streaked face.
"You weep⦠but your body opens for me. Takes me." He ground deeper, drawing a choked sob from your lips. "Wet and willing for your Jedi." The title dripped with bitter irony. He began to move.
Short, punishing thrusts that shoved you hard against the wall with each snap of his hips. The rhythm was relentless, designed to overwhelm, to obliterate thought.
Silk ripped faintly near your shoulder where his grip tightened. Every drive sent fresh tears spilling, the salt stinging your lips. He watched them fall with rapt, dark fascination, his breath coming in harsh gasps that mingled with your whimpers.
"Cry," he commanded hoarsely, his thumb smearing a tear across your mouth. "Cry knowing his ring means nothing. Cry knowing it's my cock filling you."
The friction built, a terrifying coil of pleasure tightening low in your belly despite the shame, despite the ache. His pace quickened, becoming savage, desperate.
Wet slap of skin, the choked sounds torn from your throat, the distant, oblivious music, it painted a tableau of utter ruin. His forehead pressed hard against yours, blue eyes blazing with possessive fire.
"Gonna breed you right here," he panted, his thrusts turning erratic, losing rhythm as his control frayed. "Fill you so deep⦠let it take root⦠make you swell with me."
A dark, molten vow seared into your soul. His groan deepened, shuddering through his frame as he buried himself impossibly deeper, hips stuttering against yours.
You felt the hot, pulsing rush deep inside, a flood of possession that triggered your own traitorous climax, a silent, convulsive wave that wracked your body, stealing your breath and leaving you trembling against him, tears still streaming silently down your ravaged face.
Anakin shuddered, his groan muffled against your neck, his hips grinding possessively as he emptied himself completely. He stayed buried deep, his breathing ragged against your damp skin, the scent of sex and crushed lilacs thick in the humid air. His gloved hand slid from your hair to cradle your jaw, forcing your tear-filled eyes to meet his blazing blue gaze.
"Say it," he rasped, his voice raw and thick with spent passion. His thumb traced the trembling curve of your lower lip. "Say you feel me inside you. Say you know it belongs there."
A choked sob escaped you. "I⦠I feel you," you whispered, the words thick with tears and shameful truth. The sensation of him, still hard and twitching within you, the hot wetness leaking down your inner thighs, it was undeniable. "It's⦠it's yours."
His eyes flared with dark triumph. "And?" He pressed, his thumb dipping slightly into your mouth, tasting salt and sorrow. "What else?"
The dam broke.
"I'm going to cum again," you gasped, the confession ripped from you, horrified yet achingly true. Your body clenched involuntarily around him, seeking friction even now. "Justβ¦ just feeling you thereβ¦ Ani, pleaseβ¦" You didn't know what you were begging for: release, mercy, more.
He growled, low and possessive, grinding his hips slowly, deliberately, drawing another whimper from your lips. "Tell me what you want," he demanded, his gaze locked on yours, drinking in your tears, your desperation. "Say it."
"I want you," you wept, the words a broken admission. "I want you in me. Always. Like this." The sheer obscenity of it, confessed amidst the ruins of your wedding finery, sent fresh tears cascading. "I don't want him⦠I want you."
His grip tightened almost painfully. "Then come with me," he breathed, fierce and urgent. His forehead pressed hard against yours. "Now. Before they come looking. Leave this gilded cage. Leave him. Run away with me."
The plea hung in the air, terrifying and seductive. The distant music, the life awaiting you in the great hall, it felt like ash. His heat, his claiming, the impossible promise burning in his eyes⦠it felt like the only truth left.
"Iβ¦" Your voice cracked. The enormity paralysed you, scandal, war, ruin. Yet, the traitorous pulse between your legs, still throbbing around his cock, screamed yes. "Aniβ¦"
He kissed you then, hard and desperate, swallowing your whimper, tasting your tears. It wasn't gentle, it was a branding, a final claim before the storm. When he pulled back, his eyes were wild stars. "Choose," he commanded, the word echoing with the dark power of the Force itself.
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SYNOPSIS: where suitless!Vader is the right arm of the emperor with anger issues and you are his soft-spoken girlfriend who knows exactly how to bring him to his kneesβwith nothing more than a look.
WORDS: 600+
WARNING: nothing just fluffy, just a tiny bit of angst
Vader was possessed β not by the Force, not by vengeance, but by the failure of a mission that should have been flawless.
Everything had gone wrong.
He had led a squad of Inquisitors in pursuit of one of the last remaining Jedi, a mission that was supposed to be swift, surgical, and final. It wasnβt even a full Jedi β just a Padawan. And yetβ¦ somehow, they had failed. Miserably. Two Inquisitors dead, another maimed. The others had fled β fled β like frightened children, disgracing everything he had trained into them.
Vader had expected power, precision, dominance. What he had seen instead was weakness.
And weakness had no place in his world.
The survivors suffered for their cowardice β his wrath descended like a star collapsing. He punished them without hesitation, a lesson carved into their flesh and bone. There would be no tolerance for failure. Not again.
By the time he returned to Mustafar, the fire inside him had grown unchecked. Fury rolled off of him like heat waves. His crimson saber roared to life, cleaving through anything and anyone foolish enough to be in his path β droids, furniture, command consoles, even the occasional stormtrooper caught in the wake of his rampage. Walls cracked. Steel melted. The fortress trembled under his wrath.
And then, suddenly, he was in your doorway.
The doors slammed behind him like a final verdict. You flinched, eyes wide, caught mid-page in your book, silk nightgown flowing like soft petals around your legs as you sat on the bed. The light from the hallway was devoured by his presence, all shadow and fury. His shoulders heaved with ragged breath, and those burning yellow eyes β normally hidden beneath the cold, black mask β flickered with a murderous storm.
You didnβt speak. Not at first.
You simply set your book aside, your fingers steady even as your heart raced. There was blood on his hands. His jaw was clenched tight, his entire body wound like a drawn wire. He was still ready to strike β to kill.
βAnakin,β you said softly, and it struck him like lightning.
That name. The name buried beneath layers of darkness and armor. Only you called him that, only you dared. And right now, it felt like an anchor thrown into the storm raging inside him.
He turned his head, jaw twitching. βDonβt,β he growled, voice raw, trembling. βDonβt say that name right now.β
But you were already rising from the bed, bare feet touching the cold obsidian floor. You approached without fear. Your hands reached for him β not to pull him close, but to ground him.
βI know what happened,β you whispered. βYou lost control. They failed you. But you are still here. Still standing. You donβt have to carry this rage into our space.β
His fists were clenched, saber still in hand, his breathing ragged. His eyes flicked to your face β so calm, so tender β and for a moment, he was still. Then, with a trembling exhale, his weapon fell to the floor with a heavy clang.
And then⦠he dropped to his knees.
Not in defeat.
In surrender.
To you.
His forehead pressed against your stomach, his hands clutching your thighs as if they were the last solid thing in his galaxy. You slid your fingers into his sandy hair, gently tugging him closer, cradling him like a wounded beast.
βIβm here,β you whispered, brushing your lips against his temple. βYou donβt have to be a god or a monster with me. Just breathe.β
His breath hitched. His hands trembled.
You were the only force in the galaxy that could bring Darth Vader to his knees β not with power, but with gentle. With love.
And as the chaos of the galaxy raged on outside, you held him together piece by piece, reminding the broken soul within the armor that he was still human, still Anakin β and still yours.
TAG LIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld
what started out as some kid sitting in a dimly-lit beige room transformed into joining orgs, e-sports, drinking too much, and giving you a non-stop headache.
@tomraki: dream is fucking ugly lol
another headache. your jaw drops as the retweets begin to grow and the quote retweets threaten to drop your dear streamer's address or beloved ... well, anything. dream stans were ruthless.
"tomura!! you cannot, under any circumstances, say something like that!" he eyed you lazily before surfing through his files, saving fanart and writing down stream ideas.
"i'm not allowed to say the truth?"
"no! you aren't! you're getting devoured and what are you going to do if your org retaliates against you? we already had an issue with your gambling and then Twitch banned it and then you made a statement! again!"
he sighs drearily, "they banned my fucking revenue, i'm allowed to make a fuss about it. and aren't you supposed to support my every move?"
the way his eyes pierced you, and the slow creeping grin etched on his face grew every second. he was right, he was your boss.
but you weren't some doormat. you were shigaraki tomura's assistant for god's sake! you always retaliated.
"right, of course. that's why i scheduled a minecraft manhunt with you and him together for next week! so maybe you can tell it to his face next time."
"you didn't."
bouncy steps flee out the room before he can exact his wrath, "have fun!"
"FUCK!"
... oddly enough, he could be sweet. you'd seen him with fans too young to be watching him; he didn't go goo-goo eyed but he held a softness because he too was once a watcher of his favorite creators.
the circle of life, you guessed.
"are you having fun?" somehow, shigaraki had been lumped in with some of the more American streamers when he travelled from his cozy Japan studio to sunny California.
"no." "well, i know you like that whiskey sour." "it's mid. americans can't do anything right."
you shrug, that's enough of that. you lean against the wall while sitting next to him. he has a bit of a flush, but he needed this considering he saw StickyTape (Sero, an unfunny and bad gamer in his opinion) walk in. he knew people would be gunning for him to interact, post selfies, play happy streamer...
and his eyes wandered over to you again. god, could he quit it?
"you look nice." "do i? i wore my best skirt! figured i'd be seeing lots of famous people and networking for you, had to give em' something to look at."
the whiskey sour's in his veins now, and he decides to give up on filtering.
"your face is good enough." "what?"
are you that stupid? did you not hear what he just said?
tomura was no stranger to flirting with you, he liked to tease that eventually you two would fuck and that you'd be whining about wanting to be his and only his. and maybe you sometimes felt special knowing that you were backstage because he demanded you be there, not because it was just your job. and a long time ago, on a night he was falling in your arms due to the alcohol buzzing through his system that he whispered ...
"you're the worst assistant ever." "why?" "because you'll never love me the way i want."
what was appropriate to say? he snored into his pillow as you tenderly took off his shoes. obviously, he wasn't getting as many girls as he claimed if he couldn't see the love woven into every interaction with him
"my head hurts." "wanna go home? karl jacobs is looking our way, maybe it's best to get going anyways." "jesus, yeah let's go."
and just like that, the two of you left hand in hand.
@tomraki: how do you confess your love to someone?
Κβ‘Ι ABT ; shigaraki may hate heroes, but that doesn't mean he's not allowed to send fan mail to his favourite U.A. girl and future pro hero, which just so happens to be you!
or...where you receive a very...suspicious looking package one day.
Κβ‘Ι CW ; fem third year! reader, nsfw, masturbation, sexual harassment, stalking, threats of noncon and violence, shiggy being an overall threat
The package came in with no information on it.
No sender, no return address, no anything.
It came in a fairly beaten up white box with a messily tied pink ribbon to secure it, though the ribbon itself was already crumpled and falling apart by the time it arrived at your dorm mailbox. The only thing that made you sure it was for you was the undeniable words scrawled on the side of the box with horrible handwriting and smudged words from a black marker.
To: _ a.k.a __
Written there was your full name as well as your chosen hero name, and there was obviously no mistaking it, despite the bit of trouble that came with deciphering the words. When it passed through security and its contents didnβt seem to be worthy of any attention, the box was placed in your mailbox, now left to your devices.
And youβre ecstatic as soon as you see it.
Itβs no secret that pro heroes receive fan mail all the time. It can range from adorable heartfelt letters where they receive thanks for keeping the city safe, or even lavish gifts from devoted admirers.
Pro heroes in training donβt receive as much fan mail as pros themselves do, and when you do, itβs usually just handwritten letters.
Thatβs not to say you donβt appreciate the countless people wishing you luck on your journey to finally become a pro, but receiving a packageβ a physical gift from a fan just makes you smile so hard that your cheeks begin to hurt as you collect the box and run back to your dorm to open it.
Your heart is pounding in your chest as you begin texting your friends about it. What could be inside? Who sent it? Some of them are teasing you by saying that you have a secret admirer, while others are saying it could just be some kid you saved the other day, which would actually make a lot of sense due to the messy nature of the gift.
But that doesnβt bring your spark down, not one bit. Though the idea of a secret admirer would be cute, a gift from a grateful child who you managed to save would make you just as happy as well. Youβre here to make the world a better place, and though you donβt need acknowledgement for your aspirations, youβre just glad that someoneβs noticed you.
So when you finally calm yourself down and open the box, your mind is racing a mile a minute as you wonder what it could actually be. Maybe itβs just some snacks. Maybe itβs a drawing or accessories or some clothes the sender thought youβd look good in. whatever the case, youβre expecting anything exceptβ¦
Except whatβs actually in the box.
βHuh?β
Your eyes widen in surprise when you see a video tape. Itβs one of those really old models, and it surprises you. You donβt know anyone who uses those, not unless theyβre nearing a hundred years old or something.
You take the item out of the box and survey it. It looks to be a simple tape stuffed inside the obnoxious amounts of crinkly wrapping paper inside the box, and you assume the sender didnβt want any chance of having it damaged.
Whatever the case, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, inside the tape is a short movie or edit dedicated to you. Maybe itβs like that forty-five minute video edit that Mt. Lady received from one of her fans thatβs filled with every known footage of her either in action or just simply living out her best life.
Having someone take so much time out of their day to make something like that makes your excitement only bubble up even more, and even if it isnβt forty-five minutes long, you just canβt wait to see whatβs inside the tape.
Which is why you spent around an hour bugging everyone you know for a device that the tape can run on.
It wasnβt easy of course, but you did it anyway. You brushed off all the teasing with a warm smile, and now you just canβt wait to finally see whatβs inside. You wonder if the sender will even reveal who they are. If they do, youβll make sure to make them something in return, too! Maybe some cookies, some muffins, someβ¦
The light on your TV screen comes on, and you squeal the moment it does. Thereβs stars in your eyes, and youβre fidgeting all around as you wait for a few seconds to get it to properly load.
And then it does.
The blurry footage makes it clear that itβs been recorded through whatβs either an old, low quality camera, or a grimey phone thatβs most likely been abused by its owner. You think itβs the second one, though youβre not one to judge, of course.
The room is dark, a little too dim for you to see anything properly, so you scoot closer to the screen and squint in order to try and make something out of the messy blurs of shadows.
Soft, ragged breathing can be heard through the audio, and you smile a little as you assume this might be the first time the sender has ever recorded anything. Or maybe theyβre a little nervous? You wish you could smile and make them feel comfortable.
βFuck, this thingβs on, right?β
The sudden rise in volume startles you, and you yelp a little before giggling to yourself. The voice, though a little scratchy, is clearly a manβs. He doesnβt sound much older than you, and you think back to what your friends said about a secret admirer.
Maybe�
βYep, itβs working!β you reply back to the TV, though you know thereβs nobody to actually hear you. But as if on cue, the man stabilises the phone and chuckles a little.
ββKay, there we goβ¦β he sets the device on the ground, and the camera is focused on the ceiling above. Itβs justβ¦a normal ceiling at best. Nothing to write home about. The man continues speaking.
βI figured this would be the part where my brain starts lagging, but Iβve got a lot to say,β he says. Itβs a little disappointing that he wonβt show himself and all youβre staring at is a ceiling, but it doesnβt dim your excitement any less. In fact, youβre secretly excited to see what he looks like!
+β‘+
βFirstly, I donβt like heroes.β
A bold statement, he knows. To say that Tomura has been mentally rehearsing on what heβs going to say to you is an understatement. Heβs gone through this speech countless times and over in his head, and to think that youβre going to be watching thisβ listening to his thoughts because youβre a good little hero, makes him all the more excited.
And he continues, βI hate heroes. I fucking despise them. Pretentious pieces of shits. The systemβs shitty, your friends and teachers are shitty, and basically, youβre almost shitty, too.β
Kind of harsh, he knows. Tomura smirks a little to himself as he taps the camera a few times, readjusting his sitting position to a more comfortable one and in turn causing the camera to rustle a little. βBut you know what, little hero?β
Thereβs a pause, and he hums. He imagines you glaring at the screen. Cute.
βYouβre almost shitty. Almost. Need I repeat that for you again? Youβre almost shitty. Not quite shitty, but almost, yeah. I think youβre just some confused little girl who thinks she can solve all the worldβs problems by slaving herself away to hero society. Youβre not a real hero yet, so, as I said, youβre not completely shitty for now.β
By now, he can clearly make out the mental image of you pouting and saying something along the lines of, βI am a hero!β
So thatβs whyβ
βYouβre about to turn this shit off, arenβt ya?β
Though you wonβt be watching this in the exact same time heβs currently recording it, he knows you. He knows you so, so well even without having to talk to you. All those interviews and times where heβs watched you from afar? Itβs done wonders. Especially the times where heβll track your private activities even in the βsafetyβ of your dormitory.
βGood girl. Put your hand away from the βoffβ button.β
Heβs trying to fuck with your head. Maybe youβll think that this is a live feed, and maybe youβre looking around in paranoia as you suspect that thereβs a hidden camera in the package. Maybe heβll play nice now. Heβs not entirely cruel.
βNow, I know I sounded shitty. My bad,β he murmurs, though thereβs hardly any sincerity. βI know it sounded like I hate you, didnβt it? It sounded like I wanted to fucking bash your head into a wall or watch you decay, but I donβt. I genuinely donβt.β
He can almost hear you scoff, and Tomura takes the phone in his hands again, the camera shaky as he rotates it around while still wary of keeping his face hidden.
βListen, kid,β he says, βI donβt hate you. Well, I did. So yeah, I donβt hate you now. In fact, I genuinelyβ¦the fuck was that word again?β A string of incoherent mumbles leave him, and then he decides on his word. βYeah, I genuinely like you. I like you, so thatβs why Iβm recording this shit show right now. Iβm taking some fucking time out of my day to send you a gift, so you better be fucking grateful.β
Carefully using two fingers to cover the camera part of his phone, Tomura moves a little around his room before smirking to himself. Oh, youβre so not ready for this.
βYou still with me, kid?β
Doesnβt matter if he wonβt be able to see your reactions. He knows youβll be watching.
And youβll watch him right nowβ youβll watch as he finally pulls his fingers away from the camera, and youβll watch with widened eyes as you finally take a look at the little show of love he has for you. Not that it compares to the actual depth of love he has to offer you, but itβs still something. Girls like being worshipped, donβt they?
Well, Tomura worships you well. On the walls of his room are posters of you. One of it is you in your UA uniform, and the rest display you in your hero costume where youβve been asked to strike some poses for the media. On the table thatβs pressed right under the posters are merchandise of you. Figures, keychains, notebooks, and a few other items.
Nothing too amazing compared to the merchandise that actual pro heroes have, but Tomura can still picture the slight smile of flattery and gratefulness on your face. It wonβt even matter that they all look cheap and clearly not made by a high quality company. You probably donβt even know that there were many items themed after you, and the new knowledge of this, combined with the fact that someone is apparently an avid collector of your items, is sure to make you smile tenfold. Maybe even forgive him for his earlier harsh comments.
βCute, huh?β the video pans out just a bit, and for a split second, and he tilts the camera upwards and points to each of them. βLook, Iβve gotβ¦Iβve got some posters here,β he points to the several rolled-up posters by his bedside. Heβll hang them up soon, he promises, but thatβll have to wait until the day he stops procrastinating and starts clearing his room. One poster will be an exception, though.
Itβs for the main event.
Tomura moves around a little more before going back to his main βshrineβ of you, and then zooms in on your figures. βYouβre pretty damn expensive, yβknow? Used up my arcade money on your little ass.β
Clicking his tongue in both budding boredom and disapproval, he decides to take things up a notch. He reaches under the table for a small ziploc bag, and grins lazily when he finally finds it and holds it up in front of the camera for you to see.
βYa know what this is?β he shakes the contents of the bag around, but he can tell youβre confused to no end. Which is why heβs being courteous when he gives you the answer.
βItβs some rubble from one of your fights when you fell face-flat down on the ground like a limp pig. The exact rubble that touched your face when your clumsy ass got knocked down by some cheap villain,β he laughs out loud while he pictures your expression of mortification.
βBought it off some trusted underground site for another hefty price. Ha. Thank fuck not many others were bidding on it, but even if other fuckers were trying to get their hands on it, Iβd make sure itβs mine at the end of the day,β he tosses the rubble-filled ziploc back under the table. If his little βshrineβ made you feel better about yourself, the rubble is sure to make you feel shivers down your spine. Are you creeped out by him? Terrified? Thatβd be cute.
Oh well. At least now he has fifty grams of rubble that your skin has touched.
βAnywayββ Tomura continues, βI do like you. Iβll even go so far as to say that I adore your insufferable little ass. Iβve watched all your media appearances, no matter how staged they are. I even buy the shitty products you sponsor or where you appear for advertisements.β He shifts the camera to focus on an unused skincare product and snickers. βI bet that shit would give me rashes, but itβs cute that youβre trying to help people.β
Youβre probably rolling your eyes or crossing your arms across your chest in defence of the product regardless of whether or not it actually gives people rashes. Maybe both. Whatever though, because now itβs confession time.
βYou ever properly search up the stuff you appear in?β Tomura lets you answer the rhetorical question for yourself, and he places the phone down on the ground for a moment while he slides to his PC and opens up his bookmarks. But before the show can begin, he grabs one of the rolled-up posters of you and lays it down on the ground right in front of him.
Now, heβs going to have so much fun.
βMaybe you do watch your own interviews, kid. Maybe you google your name out of curiosity. Itβs not narcissistic, I donβt blame you, but have you seen this?β
He grabs his phone and aims it straight at his computer screen.
And he can feel his cock twitch from just the thought of you squirming at the sight of what heβs showing you right now.
βItβs a wonder at what a simple little search can show you,β he scrolls down the page a few times to give you a better idea, all before he lowers his free hand to push his sweatpants and boxers down. βJust a few clicks, and I get to see hentai of you,β his hand goes to grip his cock, giving it a few pumps. βOf course, itβs not the real fucking thing, but I donβt care.β
How do you look right now? How do you feel? You canβt see it since heβs still keeping the camera focused on the computer screen, but precum has already begun leaking down Tomuraβs shaft, and he slowly starts to jerk himself off to the thought of you squirming beneath him.
βFuck, youβre so fucking cute, yβknow?β he starts stroking his cock faster and faster, keeping his pinky at bay while his palms start to sweat. His own hand is starting to feel warmer, and he wonders just how hot your gummy walls will feel when itβs wrapped around his cock like a cute little sextoy.
βI fuckingβ hah, Iβve always fucking loved you. Lookββ the camera is aimed upwards, and right above the monitor is a neatly printed and laminated picture of you.
But itβs not just any picture. Itβs a picture of you sleeping in your dorm with your curtains just slightly parted.
βI love that fucking picture,β he groans, βtook it myself, yβknow? Spent two goddamn hours waiting for you to stop watching stupid cat videos and go to bed, but itβs fucking worth it. Every time I look at it, all I can think about is fucking you stupid and using that little whorish body of yours.β
With each downstroke, his hips buck up, and Tomura can feel the delicious tension building in his thighs. It feels so good knowing youβre listening to his groans and pants. It feels so good knowing you now know that he touches himself to you, because if anything, heβs proud of it.
Heβs proud that heβll have you biting your lower lip in horror as you continue to watch, frozen in place. Maybe your bottom lip will bleed a bit from how hard youβre biting it, but it only turns him on even more. Because Tomura wants to lick the blood off of you. Heβll taste you, touch you, and fuck you. All he wants is toβ
βWanna put you in your place,β he grunts, βwanna put your good little hero body to use. Gonna fuck you hard, you hear me?β
Of course you hear him. Youβll hear him, and no matter how loud or soft the volume is, youβll hear him.
βIβm gonna hold you down and rip that pretty little hero costume off of you. Youβ fuck, you do look good in it, but youβll look even better when youβre naked and with my cum all over you.β
The precum glistening down his cock makes it even slicker. Fuck, he really wishes it was you. βI wanna see you wet and begging for my cock. Youβre nothing but my cumdump, you hear me?β
In his head, Tomura can picture himself wrapping his hand around your throat.
βAnd if your bratty little ass wants to disobey me, I might just decay you to dust,β he lets out a breathy laugh, βbut I wonβt. The only thing I want to see crumble is your independence. Youβre mine, you hear me? F-fuck, youβre mineβ¦β The intense fire in his loins is quickly growing into a delicious heat that goes up his spine and distorts his vision for a bleary second.
βFeels so fucking good just imagining itβs your slutty pussy that Iβm using,β he groans out, his hips meeting his fist with every harsh stroke and pump. βI wanna hurt you, yβknow? I wanna bruise you up a bit and make you take my cock like the fuckdoll you are. All you are is a piece of fuckmeat. You think youβre so fucking high and mighty by saving people, but youβll be even better when youβre on your knees servicing me.β
Tomura can only imagine thrusting into you even harder now. All your little gasps of βAh! Ah! Ah!β and the way tears will spill out of your pretty eyes. He wants to see the hopeful hero light in your eyes dim and he wants to see you break.
βYouβre just a breeding bitch,β he spits out, breath starting to shorten. Fuck, heβs close. βYour bodyβs not made for fightingββ Tomuraβs pumping fist is wet with precum and pulsing hot around his cock, and heβs really fucking close, because in his mind, youβre really nothing but a perfect girl thatβs perfect for taking his cockβ βyour bodyβs made for fucking.β
With lustful grunts and low-pitched whimpers, he closes his eyes and moans your name out. Tomura cums hard, the final pump powerful enough for his seed to spurt and dirty itself right on your poster thatβs been laid out before him. The image of your pretty face is covered with hot, thick releases of his seed. Fuck, he really wishes it wasnβt just a fantasy.
βYou see this?β heβs panting like thereβs no air left, but he focuses the camera on the cum-stained poster of you with a smug smirk. βSee how cute you look covered in my cum? Youβre such a good little girl. Kind of a waste that itβs on a poster of you instead of being inside your tight little cunt, but whatever. Thereβs a next time.β
He lowers the phone on the ground and lays on the floor. That wasnβt even close to being enough. Although it was the best orgasm heβs ever had in his life, Tomura knows itβs nowhere near enough. Itβll never be enough until itβs with you.
βI need you, yβknow?β he murmurs softly. βIβll take you someday. I mean it when I said I do like you. Iβll have you one day, and I promiseββ
Thereβs so much he wants to say, so much he wants to tell you. Maybe he did come off as an asshole, but he does promise to make you happy. Thatβs after he has you to himself, though. Rewards come from being good, and as long as you can prove yourself to not only be a good little hero but his good little girlfriend as well, heβll give you everything he can.
So for nowβ
βI promise Iβll see you on the battlefield, little hero.β
He reaches over for his phone, and hits βstop recording.β
+β‘+
The video ends.
It finally ends.
After around fifteen gruelling minutes, it ends.
But even after it ends, you canβt bring yourself to move or react. Youβre rooted in place, and youβre trembling as you blink slowly and lower your gaze from the black screen that shows nothing but your horrified reflection.
Your throat feels dry and constricted as you swallow, and you nervously eye the package from where the video came from.
Youβre scared.
Who is this sender, and why does he promise to see you on the battlefield? Your first thought is that heβs a villain, but you just canβt imagine any villain idiotically sending out a threat to a hero in such a vulgar manner.
Unlessβ¦the villain is powerful enough to know they can easily take on any hero that goes after them?
You shake your head, trying to repel those negative thoughts away. No way that creep who sent you the package was a villain. Thereβs just no way. Itβs just an empty threat meant to gauge a shocked reaction out of you. Maybe he thinks youβll tell the teachers out of cowardice, or maybe he thinks youβll go on social media and express your fear and concerns.
But no, you wonβt. You refuse to let this man shake you. You know youβre a hero, and youβre better than wallowing out the rest of the day in paranoia.
And you reach for the package once more, intent on fishing out a listening device ingrained into it. You shake the box, roughen it up a little, and sigh in relief when you find nothing amiss with it.
That is, until you accidentally knock it over and a poster falls out of the bottom of the wrapping paper thatβs been taped over the packageβs base.
Itβs a poster of you, except itβs clearly stained by none other than cum.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
β Live Streamingβ Interactive Chatβ Private Showsβ HD Qualityβ Free Actions
Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
β Live Streamingβ Interactive Chatβ Private Showsβ HD Qualityβ Free Actions
Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
authorβs note: I had no idea what to title this lmao. Thank you to the lovely @cassiefromhell for the Yuji pic bc I could NOT find anything that I felt resembled him
