#Commercial Swing Set | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

harmonictechnicality · 2 years ago

Text

model!steve and voice actor!eddie

part 2 here | ao3 link here

Eddie chose a career in voice acting to avoid shit like this.

Forced socializing. Schmoozing with hotshot directors who are used to everyone kissing their ass until their lips bleed. And Eddie doesn’t do that shit.

… Okay yeah sure, Eddie kisses asses. But only in the literal, consensual kind of way. Usually after a few mediocre dinner dates, at least.

But this particular fuckhole of a director is insisting that Eddie attends the production shoot of the commercial that he’ll be narrating for. Which is weird - that’s not how this process typically goes. Eddie gets the script and records it in his studio. Easy peasy.

“I do things a little differently with my projects.” The director sneers into the phone’s speaker. Eddie silently gags at the oozing amounts of ego on this guy. “I want to immerse you into my vision.”

Ew. Eddie would rather immerse himself into a nap, but whatever. A job is a job.

“Understood.” Eddie agrees with minimal teeth-clenching. “I’ll be on set shortly.”

The phone clicks dead with nothing but a chuckle from the guy. No ‘goodbye,’ no ‘thank you.’ Rude… but that’s kind of an industry standard, so why did Eddie expect anything different?

He folds the script into his back pocket, throws on a shirt that screams ‘Los Angeles disaster gay,’ and makes his way to the studio lot.

Fucking yay.

Upon arrival, the director immediately escorts Eddie into the green room. Rambles on about needing him to meet the lead model for this commercial.

“Isn’t he just posing with the product?” Eddie lets his snarkiness run loose with that question, knows it right away.

Luckily, the guy is too busy snapping at a crew member to notice. “You’ll be voicing his character’s inner narrations.”

“Right.”

“And I want your tone to be seamless with the energy that he’s giving in this shoot. Got it?”

“Loud and clear.” Mostly loud.

The director swings open the door and reveals maybe the most cosmically beautiful person that Eddie has ever seen.

“Eddie, this is Steve.” The director says. “Steve, this is Eddie.”

Models are beautiful people, that’s the goddamn gig. Makeup, no makeup. Photoshop, no photoshop. They just look better than the general population and society accepts that as a fact.

But Eddie is a grubby little voice actor that burrows himself up in his boxy apartment for days. Very little sunlight, very little human interaction, and a shit ton of takeout.

Long story short, he doesn’t get out much. So this? Seeing a biblically hot heartthrob in the flesh? With his own two eyes? It’s knocking him into deep space. Sending him into an astral projection without sticking a tablet on his tongue first.

“Nice to meet you, man.” Steve holds out his hand while someone brushes more powder onto his shiny, glowy skin. God, that’s the best damn skin Eddie has ever seen. Powder be damned, Steve doesn’t need it’s chalky finish.

Eddie shakes himself out of this spell, takes Steve’s hand like he’s somehow worthy of touching him. “Yeah, you too.”

Lame. So lame. On a scale of one to Star Wars prequels, his response is the CGI in Attack of the Clones. ‘Yeah, you too?’ Ugh, what a dumbass.

The director tells them to get acquainted and to be on set in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Eddie has to be convincingly normal for ten whole minutes. Pfft, that’s laughable, but he’ll give it a shot.

“That guy’s a total asshat.” Steve grumbles.

Oh. Eddie could smother him in kisses for saying that. Lick Steve clean of all that stupid powder and probably die of talc poisoning. Death By Licking a Model is one hell of a way to go.

“Yeah.” Find some new words, Munson. “Major asshat. But he happens to be paying my bills this month, so technically, he’s my favorite major asshat.”

“Oh, same.” Steve laughs. It’s fucking glorious too. Eddie kind of wishes he had brought his microphone so that he could capture such a wonderful sound with high quality recording software. Is that creepy? Maybe he should dial it back.

... As if. This guy’s hair is sculpted with effortless perfection and his shoulder blades could slice through a French baguette. No way Eddie can dial it back or keep it together.

“So you’re doing the voice work on the commercial, right?” Steve asks.

‘Yup.” Eddie shoves both hands into his pockets. “Indeed I am.”

Okay, that was borderline Yoda. Get a grip.

Steve seems unfazed though. “That’s cool. Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”

“Thanks.” Eddie smiles warmly. Nerves mellowing out. “And I can’t wait to see you in action out there.”

“Hope I can give you some good inspiration.” And Steve winks, legit winks at Eddie. Does it like it’s normal too, like he winks at everybody. He probably winks at nuns just to see if he can get them to consider conversion.

Eddie is so hopeless. Fucking tragic at this point.

They walk into the studio and are greeted by a somber, archaic set design. There’s a massive throne in the middle that is draped with fur.

It’s… tacky. That’s the nicest adjective Eddie has to describe it. Tacky bullshit.

“I thought this was for a cologne ad.” Eddie says, eyeing the snowy backdrop.

Steve nods. “It is.”

“So what’s with the secondhand Game of Thrones set?”

“Mr. Asshat thinks this is his cinematic debut.”

Eddie snorts. Loves that he already has inside jokes with this beautiful, beautiful creature. “Someone should tell Mr. Asshat that this is visual plagiarism.”

“Nah.” Steve runs his hand over the tacky fur piece. Smirks to himself as he speaks. “I say we let him suffer.”

Eddie’s legs wobble. “Damn, you’re hot.”

He sounds ridiculously uncool, so breathy and gone. But Steve shrugs in a non-pitying kind of way, so maybe Eddie's uncoolness is excused. Or expected.

While the camera and lighting crew finalize their positions, Steve takes off his robe, revealing his costume.

Torn, muddied pants. Ripped and clawed to shreds. A billowy white top that’s completely unbuttoned. Un-laced? Eddie’s not entirely sure about the mechanics - just knows that Steve’s chest is out, that’s all he can focus on.

There’s a dented crown that the stylist places next to the throne, right at Steve’s feet. It’s shimmery yet tarnished, catches the light in a kaleidoscope effect.

The product is called The Fallen King, so deductive reasoning tells Eddie that Steve is meant to be the physical embodiment of this scent. He recalls something in the script about his title being slandered by promiscuity and forbidden love. Apparently they’ve bottled up that smell into a cologne.

Do people really want to smell like a dethroned monarch? That’s a thing? Huh.

Just to make the sexual torture even more unbearable, Eddie gets to spectate alongside Mr. Asshat himself. Which also means that Eddie almost has a center view of Steve’s performance.

Cause that’s exactly what he’s giving. A performance. A full display production of his body, his face. His whole godlike essence.

It’s unfair how fucked Eddie is from watching Steve pose. He can hold the oddest positions without budging a single tendon. So still. Durable. Strong.

Every last thought in Eddie’s head is impure from that observation. He wants to wrap his fingers around Steve’s muscles until he finally moves, twitches. Eddie wants to watch as Steve’s pretty lips part, falling open with sighs. See how long it takes for those sighs to turn into moans.

Steve slumps back into the throne, legs spread obscenely far apart. His gaze droops low and dark, practically eye-fucking the camera. It’s crazy how jealous Eddie is of that stupid inanimate object. The things he would do to get eye-fucked by that golden sex god up there…

His internal porno gets interrupted by a new pose. A wicked one. Steve is on his knees now, looking up into the camera lens. He sinks into the dreamiest expression. Looks dazed, all spaced-out and helpless. Eddie kneads at the growing heat in his pants with the heel of his palm. Hopes it’s not fucking obvious that he’s so horned up right now.

The director clears his throat and yells over the camera’s constant shuttering. “Can you tilt your head back, Steve?”

And Steve does. So obedient, so exceptional at his job. His head rolls back on his neck, shoulders sagging with the shift of weight.

Eddie is chewing the inside of his cheek, nearly ready to take the horny loss and go jack off in his car. Steve is in the most ideal position now, totally vulnerable. Eddie could fuck him so good like that, let Steve melt into his touch. He’d treat him like treasure, spoil him with dick and praise. Eddie would catch him if his legs give out. Would lick Steve’s kiss-bitten lips until the swelling goes down.

God, Eddie is so sick in the head for conjuring up x-rated scenes like this. In public, surrounded by strangers. Literally on the clock. He seriously needs to get his head checked for having such a whorish imagination.

The shoot ends shortly after that last pose, the one that rocked Eddie’s world. He closes his eyes for a minute, takes a few deep breaths. Tries to inhale some goddamn decency.

“How was it?” Steve heads his way, snaking his arms back into the bathrobe.

Eddie blinks hard. “It was… you were…” And the words stop. Nothing else comes out, his throat is strangled and bare.

Steve gives a soft laugh, nudges Eddie’s arm with his elbow. “Guess you do better when there’s a script in front of you, huh?”

Oh. So he’s pretty and darkly playful? This is too good, too delicious.

Eddie wets his bottom lip, recovers quickly. “I do better when there’s not an earthbound angel in my presence.”

“Wow.” Steve raises both eyebrows. “That’s quite the compliment.”

“Oh come on - you must get compliments all the time.”

“Not like that one though.”

“No?”

Steve takes a step into Eddie’s space. “Definitely not.”

They just stare after that - mostly because it’s Eddie’s turn to speak but words are so secondary when there’s this much beauty to behold. Gazing becomes his top priority.

And before the conversation can lead to an exchange of last names or phone numbers, Steve is rushed off by his agent. Maybe his publicist. Maybe his mom, Eddie has no fucking clue. Just someone taking away his shiny new toy. He sort of feels like reenacting that scene in Cast Away when the volleyball drifts into the ocean. Be dramatic as all hell about this ending.

Eddie doesn’t actually jack off in his car, although he really wants to. No, he decides to use all of his adrenaline and pent-up hormones for the voice recording. It gives his vocals this strained, chesty sound. Sinful and corrupt. Cracking with emotion in certain spots, spiking the volume in all the right ways.

It might be too much, a little bit too suggestive for a lousy cologne advertisement.

But as he listens back, Eddie can’t help but picture Steve. Imagining snapshots of him from every angle, especially the unspeakable ones. The recording barely sounds like a script anymore. It almost sounds like Eddie whispering the lines directly into Steve’s ear. A dirty secret between them.

This is it, he thinks. Sends the audio file to his sound mixer without a second read-through, without a retake. This might be the best voiceover Eddie Munson has ever done.

#steddie #steddie fic #this is inspired by the unhinged ao3 tag generator #so there will be two more parts - fairly short like this one #not sure if I should put this on ao3... we shall see #anyways thanks for listening xx

3K notes · View notes

scriveyner · 1 year ago

Text

the places we'll go

Akutagawa wasn’t certain where’d he taken the wrong turn, but it came up quickly. He glowered at an unfamiliar street full of pedestrians, hands in his pockets as he stalked forward, intent on a mission. It wasn’t like him to get lost, but he was distracted as he often was these days, ruminating on the most creative way to eviscerate that miserable self-healing weretiger.

Continue on AO3 or after the jump:

The autumn air was crisp, not quite cold yet; but most people around him were dressed in long sleeves or pants, bundling against the inevitable drop in temperature when the sun finally sank past the horizon. They paid him little mind, which he preferred; but something just seemed off. The city streets around him had transitioned into more housing than commercial, and he had little business on this side of town.

Akutagawa went to turn a corner, intending to double back the way he’d come when he was nearly run down by an errant child swinging a toy sword.

Rashomon rippled, irritated from his shoulders as Akutagawa stared, surprised, at what looked to be the spitting image of the weretiger, only in child form.

“Oops, sorry mister,” the child yelped without even looking at him, even as an all-too-familiar voice shouted from along the road, “Acchan! Watch where you’re swinging that-!”

Akutagawa turned, taken aback but already preparing a snide remark about the weretiger’s secret lovechild when he locked eyes with Atsushi and froze in place. The weretiger’s stride faltered as well as they stared at each other, the moment stretching interminably long as Akutagawa’s gaze flickered from Atsushi to the small dark-haired child whose hand he was holding, and then over to himself, holding the child’s other hand and looking just as startled.

Time sped up, and everyone was in motion. “Acchan!” Atsushi roared, and the small version of himself turned, clearly startled by the tone, and finally looked up at Akutagawa, eyes wide.

“Dad?” he said, confused.

He caught the movement from the corner of his eye as his other self scooped the second child into his arms; Akutagawa turned to face them, coat spinning out behind him as Rashomon exploded from his coat in defensive tendrils. Before he could react one entire enormous tiger landed on him, taking him to the ground, teeth bared to his face.

Rashomon stabbed into the great white beast, through limbs and sides, drenching them both in blood but its weight was enormous, he couldn’t free himself from beneath its paws.

Blood splattered past his face and onto the concrete, and he felt his ribs crack under the weight of the enormous white tiger; he tried still to dislodge him—however, not even Rashomon deterred him, the growl echoing in his chest, hot breath blasting through his hair.

Black pulled at the edges of his vision; from the left he saw himself, holding the dark-haired child who looked like them both; this other him put his hand on the tiger’s bloody shoulder and said something softly.

Akutagawa coughed wetly, unable to parse the words through the blood rushing in his ears, and finally succumbed to the darkness pulling him under.

=====

Everything fucking hurt.

Akutagawa took a deep breath, took note of two cracked ribs that complained horrifically, and assessed before he even opened his eyes. He wasn’t restrained; heard no soft hum of medical equipment, and figured if he was dead, he wouldn’t hurt so goddamn much. Finally he opened his eyes and discovered, to his surprise, he was laid out on a couch, tattered black trench coat laid over him like a blanket.

Two pairs of eyes, one set dark gray and the other achingly familiar violet-gold, were peeking over the back of the couch at him. When the two sets of eyes realized that they had been spotted, both disappeared and two pairs of footsteps went thudding away, out of sight. “Dad, dad, dad!!!”

Akutagawa pushed himself upright, coat sliding off. He was shirtless, bandages wrapped securely around his chest—presumably to help with the cracked ribs—but they were not so tight as to restrict his already labored breathing. He pulled his coat around his shoulders as he sat up, Rashomon’s presence an immediate comfort, and the only thing familiar in this moment—until a second, enormous, red-eyed black Rashomon head hove over him from behind the couch.

He turned and saw himself, the two miniature versions of himself and the weretiger hiding safely behind his legs. Akutagawa stared at the children, perplexed, for a moment more, before raising his gaze and meeting his double’s eye.

The other Akutagawa said, “Upstairs, both of you. Now.”

“What?” the tiny Atsushi said. “No! I want to know—”

“You heard your father,” the weretiger’s voice came from out of sight, and after another long look at Akutagawa, both children slunk away.

Akutagawa took a deep breath, heart thudding in his chest like he’d run a marathon. “What the hell is going on,” he croaked, throat and mouth dry as the desert. “Who the hell are you?”

“I think that would be plainly obvious,” his double said shortly. “What’s less obvious is what you are doing here.”

The weretiger entered the room then; he was wearing different clothes from before but otherwise looked completely undamaged. His gait was strange, too; different from what Akutagawa was accustomed to, and it took him a moment to recognize it was that this Atsushi moved with an easy confidence. He wasn’t even bothered that Akutagawa was sitting here. He wasn’t seen as a threat.

Akutagawa hated him.

Atsushi was carrying a tray with tea on it, he set it on the low table in front of Akutagawa. “I made tea,” he announced unnecessarily. Akutagawa did not move, continuing to stare at his own twin, silent. Atsushi slid up beside his other self, but Akutagawa noted he did not present his back once. “Do you remember this happening?” he asked the man he stood beside in a low voice; as if Akutagawa could not hear them speak from this proximity.

His twin shook his head once, sharply, not taking his eyes off Akutagawa. “Not at all.”

“Do you think an ability…?”

“Why are you conversing so casually with the weretiger?” Akutagawa snapped suddenly, eyes alight, interrupting their conversation. “What is he even doing here, and who are those children?”

Atsushi stepped forward, eyes flashing with something he’d never seen in his own weretiger’s eyes. “I’m here because I’m meant to be,” he said, sharply. “The children are not your concern, don’t speak of them.”

“Weretiger,” his other self murmured, admonishing, and Atsushi tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment but didn’t look back.

“He tried to kill me in front of them,” he said, anger brimming brightly in his voice. “They’re going to be sleeping in our bed for a week.”

“Your what?”

Akutagawa watched his other self catch the weretiger’s elbow and pull him back. His touch was clearly a familiar comfort, not even a hair adversarial. It felt wrong to even see it, and Akutagawa shuddered, pulling his coat tighter over his shoulders. “If he’s me,” the other Akutagawa said, voice soft and firm, “he’s not stupid, Atsushi. Go sit with the kids, they need reassurance. Let me talk to him.”

Atsushi sputtered and looked between Akutagawa and his double. The look he shot Akutagawa was one he was familiar with and Rashomon acted without guidance, rippling in a red tinge from his shoulders, prepared for a fight.

Instead of engaging, though, Atsushi looked away. He took a breath, looked the other Akutagawa in the eye, and then walked back the way the children had disappeared. His twin watched Atsushi leave, and when he turned back to face Akutagawa his face was dark.

“You had best come up with a reason for me not to take your head for threatening my family,” his other self said in a low, cold tone.

“Why are you with the enemy?”

“The weretiger has never been our enemy,” his other self walked forward, looking down at Akutagawa with eyes that seemed lighter than his own. “I don’t care if you’ve figured that out for yourself or not; but as I have no memory of this encounter that means you are not my past.” He slid his hands into his pockets and leaned forward, threat written all over his face. “Which also means it will cause my life no harm if I were to allow yours to end.”

Akutagawa rose from the couch, facing his twin, Rashomon looming large from his coat and matching the threat display with one of his own. “Try it,” he urged, voice hoarse. “Shall we fight here, make a mess of this nice little home where you’re kept like a pet?”

His twin’s eyes grew hard. His own Rashomon almost overrode the impulse to do precisely that, but he stood firm. “If you are manifested from an ability, or are here because of one, it will simply take Dazai-san to reverse it,” he said finally. “You don’t want to be here, and we don’t want you here. Can’t we find an accord until this is resolved?”

It was a reasonable enough request, although Akutagawa wasn’t particularly interested in complying. “An accord,” he repeated. “I have no need to agree to anything with you, or with anyone. What benefit do I have to an accord with you?”

“The benefit,” Akutagawa’s twin said, slowly, enunciating, “is that I keep my husband from tearing out your throat for even the shadow of the threat you just posed to our children.”

“You’ve gone soft to not do it yourself,” Akutagawa hissed, Rashomon darting forward to engage—but that tendril was severed by a black as night Rashomon blade; almost faster than he could see. Startled, he took a step back, legs banging into the coffee table and spilling the tea across the tray.

The other Akutagawa covered the distance between them, coming around the couch quickly. He got his hand in Akutagawa’s coat and their abilities thrummed together. Akutagawa froze, electricity prickling his skin, but his twin didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

“Make no mistake,” he hissed, “I do not cower behind my weretiger. But I made him a vow, and I keep my word.”

They stared, eye to eye, breathing hard—and then his twin released him, took a step back, and folded his arms. He exhaled a shaky breath before meeting Akutagawa’s eye again. “Besides,” he said, the ghost of a smirk appearing. “I know you do not appreciate it now, but there is something delightful about him covered in someone else’s blood.”

The two Akutagawas stared at each other silently for a long moment as he turned the option over in his head. Finally, Akutagawa folded his arms and looked away. “An accord,” he said. “You shall answer any questions I have, and I shall not bring harm to the children?”

His other self nodded, pose mirrored, arms folded.

The quicker he got out of this absurd situation, the better. “Fine then,” he said. “You have your accord. Take me to Dazai-san.”

=====

This request turned out to be more complicated than he anticipated. “Dazai-san’s phone is off,” Atsushi said, seated across from Akutagawa on the couch and holding his phone in front of him with one hand, irritation plainly evident in his voice. “Again.”

“Chuuya-san just got back from France,” his twin said from across the room. He was standing at the table, supervising the two children working on homework. They kept sneaking furtive glances at Akutagawa, and then looking back to their father. “What did you expect?”

“How is it he’s never around when we need him?”

“Dazai-oji is going to be at the party tonight,” the small version of himself said, his gaze darting from Akutagawa to Atsushi. “We’re still going…right?”

“Absolutely not,” Atsushi said, distracted, at the same time that the other Akutagawa said, “of course we are.”

They crossed gazes, amusingly, and Akutagawa took a sip of his tea, watching the silent conversation composed entirely of glares. Finally, Atsushi sighed, looked back at his phone, and said, “Yes, we’re still going.”

“Party?” Akutagawa enquired, although he didn’t properly care, the question was disruptive enough that it amused him. His tiny self’s head came up immediately.

“It’s a Halloween party,” he said enthusiastically before he could be shushed. “I’m going to be a detective, like father!”

Akutagawa raised an eyebrow. “Ryuu-chan,” Atsushi said in a warning tone, but then the other child’s head came up, holding his pencil in his hand like a weapon.

“And I’m gonna be Zorro! Did you see my sword?”

“Acchan—!”

“I’m gonna show him my sword!” Before he could be interrupted or stopped, the small version of Atsushi went straight over the table and dashed around the corner, striped tail trailing out behind him. Bewildered, Akutagawa looked over to Atsushi, who now had his head in both hands.

Akutagawa wasn’t certain how to phrase the question he wanted to ask, which rarely stopped but before he could the tiny Atsushi known as Acchan had returned, a familiar toy rapier in his hand. He bounded over the back of the couch with ease and sat next to Akutagawa fearlessly, proudly wielding his toy.

Atsushi’s head shot up, and he could see his other self start to move from out of the corner of his eye; as if he intended to remove the child from Akutagawa’s proximity. “See?” Acchan said, showing off the weapon. “It makes a whippy noise if you swing it around real fast but isn’t pointy at all!”

“I…see,” Akutagawa said, dryly, uncertain how to handle this.

“Acchan,” his twin said sharply, and Acchan’s enthusiasm wilted slightly. “If you wish to go to the party this evening, your homework must be completed.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, sliding off the couch cushion and retreating back to the table, sword still in hand.

“Where…?” That wasn’t the question he wanted to ask. Akutagawa inclined his head toward the table, as his other self leaned over and answered a question from Ryuu-chan. “How?”

“An ability,” Atsushi said, correctly interpreting his confusion. “Ranpo-san said it seemed like they were us, brought from another reality. When Dazai-san dispelled the ability, they stayed. So, Ryuu and I…” he shot an undisguised, fond look at the other Akutagawa that made his skin crawl, “we decided to raise them. Make sure they grew up safe and protected from anyone who’d try to use our abilities to do harm.”

Akutagawa turned this over in his head for a moment. He could at least see the weretiger doing this, but himself? Ridiculousness. “And you didn’t at least change their names?”

When the weretiger shrugged at him, he snorted. “Incredible that I would be so taken by you, do you have nothing but fluff between your ears?”

“You’re the one who put a ring on it,” Atsushi said smartly, holding up his left hand, but was distracted when his phone vibrated on his lap. “Oh, good news at least. Dazai-san will be at the party. They just might be late.”

“What’s the over/under on the appropriateness of his costume this year?”

“I don’t take bets with you; we share a bank account.” Atsushi glanced up at Akutagawa, who was watching the conversation with detached interest. “Last year Dazai-san came wearing only bandages,” he explained, and then shook his head. “Most people at least wear shorts under the bandages if they’re dressing as a mummy….”

“Most people also don’t attempt to fling themselves out the fifth-floor window when left to their own devices and the liquor unattended.”

“This is also true.” Atsushi scrolled through his phone for a second, clearly looking for proof that Akutagawa did not request but then got distracted, pulling up a picture and showing the phone to Akutagawa. It was a picture of the children, wearing their school uniforms and standing in front of a gate, looking proud of themselves.

Akutagawa stared at the picture and then looked at Atsushi, who was clearly beaming; and felt a weird twinge. He sat back in his seat, arms folded.

“I’m hungry,” Acchan complained from the table. “When are we gonna eat?”

Atsushi looked across the room at the other Akutagawa, and they did that silent communication thing again. “I forgot,” Atsushi said. “We were supposed to pick up groceries after we were done costume shopping.”

“I mean,” the other Akutagawa said, hands on the back of Ryuu-chan’s chair. “Things did take a turn on us.”

There was a pause, and Acchan said in the most dramatic, horrified, I’m dying voice a child had ever mustered, “No dinner!?”

=====

Akutagawa remained seated on the couch while his twin ordered dinner, Acchan circling his legs like a cat that hadn’t been fed in days. “He would eat us out of house and home if we let him,” Atsushi commented, noticing Akutagawa watching Acchan. “He’s never had sleep for dinner, though he tries to make you believe otherwise.”

That strange twinge again. Akutagawa looked at Atsushi, who was also watching Acchan, a fond, amused look on his face. Acchan had stopped circling Akutagawa, grabbed his toy rapier off the table, and zig-zagged it through the air.

It was, Akutagawa hated to admit, fascinating to watch this dynamic. As much as he loathed the weretiger he could respect that they at least worked well together, but to see that teamwork employed in something as mundane as wrangling kids to clean up for dinner was…something he’d never imagined.

Atsushi walked past, shouting something to the other Akutagawa, who was out of earshot through the kitchen. Now alone, Ryuu-chan took the opportunity to sneak over, staring at Akutagawa all the while.

Akutagawa stared down at this tiny version of himself; well-fed, in clean clothes, groomed and healthy. A proper childhood lay ahead of him, and he felt a small spark of envy for this child.

“Who are you?” Ryuu-chan asked him solemnly, grey eyes sharp.

Akutagawa stared imperiously down at him, but the child didn’t flinch from his gaze. He instead studied Akutagawa closely. “You look just like me and Dad,” he said. “But you’re not his brother, and you have the same ability as us. No one has the exact same ability.”

Akutagawa’s mouth quirked. “So who is it you think I am then, boy?”

“You’re me,” Ryuu-chan said it with no hesitation, a frown on his face while he contemplated this. “But you’re mean, and you made dad bleed.” His green sweater rippled with color, his own Rashomon rising from its threads, and his tiny face twisted, eyes flashing with just a hint of red. “Don’t hurt Dad again.”

“Ryuu-chan!” An enormous black Rashomon head plucked Ryuu-chan up by the sweater, scruffing him like a kitten. His green Rashomon collapsed into his clothing immediately, abashed. “Leave him alone,” his twin said severely, and Ryuu-chan darted another look at Akutagawa before nodding obediently.

Dinner was chaotic and loud, a spectacle all on its own. Akutagawa remained on the couch and observed from afar, a barely touched plate sitting by his knee on the table as he watched the family eat together at the table.

If he so wanted, he could strike at them easily, unguarded as they were. Atsushi’s back was to him, distracted by arguing with the other version of himself. He was more concerned with making sure Acchan didn’t inhale all the food before anyone else had their fair share of the portions; Atsushi said something in aggravation and his twin laughed. It was free and joyful and as unguarded as anything else happening at the moment.

He could strike at them, but he found he didn’t want to.

Akutagawa looked away, down at the portion of food on his plate he hadn’t touched. Atsushi had handed it off to him casually, unafraid, more concerned with the children than their uninvited guest. He despised the weretiger immensely but couldn’t bring himself to act upon it. He had struck an accord with himself, and like the man said he kept to his word. It was the fact that he didn’t want to that disquieted him the most.

Acchan had finished his vacuum cleaner impersonation and emptied the boxes of leftovers and now zeroed in on Akutagawa’s plate. He bounced over to the couch, put his hands on Akutagawa’s knee, and said, “If you’re done, I’ll take your plate!”

“Have at,” Akutagawa said, and Acchan sprung upon it. Atsushi sighed and got up from the table, and Akutagawa looked at him. “Tell me, are you a bottomless pit as well, weretiger?”

“He is,” his twin confirmed. “He just hides it better. Can’t keep anything in the refrigerator overnight, it’ll be gone by morning.”

“Hey,” Atsushi said, insulted. “I have better self-control than that.”

“Do you?” both Akutagawa and his twin said at the same time, and they looked at each other, surprised—his twin exhaled in amusement, while Akutagawa was horrified.

Atsushi ignored them both, touching the top of Acchan’s head. “If you’re so intent on cleaning everyone’s plates, Acchan, you get to do the dishes tonight.”

“Mwha?” Acchan’s dejection was muffled by his mouth full of bread.

“I can wash dishes,” Akutagawa said before he caught himself. Atsushi looked at him, startled, but Acchan put both his hands in the air, victorious.

“Yes! Thank you, ‘niisan!” Acchan ran his plate into the kitchen and disappeared up the stairs, presumably to get changed into his costume.

Akutagawa awkwardly stood in the kitchen with his twin, still entirely confused as to why he volunteered for this. He didn’t end up doing the washing but drying instead, while Atsushi stepped away to supervise the children changing into their costumes.

“Is it always like this?” he asked finally, tone strangely subdued. He didn’t know what this was, but when he looked up from drying the plate in his hands it was to his own face, looking softly amused.

“Never a dull moment,” his twin said, with a fond tinge to his tone that Akutagawa didn’t recognize, as he’d never used it. He rinsed another plate and handed it to Akutagawa. “I hope one day you’ll find your own peace, with the weretiger or otherwise. It is hard to achieve, but it’s worth it.”

Akutagawa shook his head, still drying the plate and refusing to look at him. “It’s nothing someone like me deserves.”

“Maybe not.” Akutagawa’s other self turned off the faucet, draining the sink. “But those kids deserve safety and security. I can’t atone for everything I’ve done, but I can be a better person for them.”

Akutagawa finished drying the drinkware as his twin left to go change as well, leaving him alone in their house for the first time since he’d arrived. Akutagawa lined the cups on the counter and stared at them for a moment; four different cups, two hardy plastic and two dinged but well-used glasses.

He looked around the kitchen, at the appliances and cupboards; scuffs and dents, a small chunk of plaster missing from the drywall around child-height, a faded scorch mark on the wall behind the stove.

Then he folded the dishtowel he’d been using for drying over the edge of the sink and returned to the main room.

Acchan was already there waiting, in a cape and a mask on his face, wearing a large-brimmed hat with a rakish tilt. “Look,” he said, drawing his toy sword from the red sash around his waist and flicking it around in the air, before jumping on the couch.

Rashomon reacted before Akutagawa did; but instead of tendrils darting out to skewer, they were blunted, batting at the toy sword, giving Acchan something to fence. “Acchan!” Atsushi yelled, seeing Rashomon’s movement—but halted just around the corner, a hat in both hands. Akutagawa looked at him impassively, allowing Rashomon to collapse back into his coat, and Atsushi squeezed the hat, giving Akutagawa a long look.

“Dad, you’re yelling a lot tonight,” Acchan said, one hand on the back of the couch, feet firmly on the cushions.

“Yeah, well, you know you’re not supposed to jump on the furniture,” Atsushi said, waving the Stetson at him like he was a misbehaving farm animal. “Come on, leave him alone, we’re almost ready.”

“But ‘niisan doesn’t have a costume,” Acchan protested.

“I do,” Akutagawa said dryly. When Acchan looked back at him, eyes wide, Akutagawa tugged on his collar, making it stand up properly. “I’m a mafioso.”

“Chuuya-oji is a mafioso,” Acchan said dismissively. “That’s not a costume.” Atsushi choked, covering his mouth with one hand to not laugh out loud and ignoring Akutagawa’s glare as he moved past. “Oh! I know!”

Acchan disappeared back the way he’d come as Ryuu-chan and his father emerged from the stairwell. Ryuu-chan was wearing an Inverness cape and a deerstalker, clutching a comically large magnifying glass; while Akutagawa’s twin was wearing a dark cape with purple lining over regular clothing and a tall, soft-looking floppy hat with a wide brim.

“Wizard?” Akutagawa asked, and Ryuu-chan shook his head negatively.

“Father’s a witch,” he said forcefully, and his twin gave Akutagawa a pained look, having clearly been through this many times.

Acchan tumbled down the stairs behind them, a blur of motion and holding aloft something in one hand. “Here, here!” he said, waving it before Akutagawa could identify the object. “You can be a vampire since you look like one already!”

The other Akutagawa covered his mouth and started coughing obnoxiously loud, clearly trying to stifle straight-up laughter. Akutagawa ignored him as Acchan deposited the item, now revealed to be a set of flimsy plastic fangs, into Akutagawa’s open hand.

“You know,” he said, pointing at his twin, “he used to dress like me.”

Acchan turned to his father, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well, duh,” Ryuu-chan said. “We have pictures, ‘niisan.”

This response did not in fact help clear up the other Akutagawa’s coughing fit. Atsushi reappeared, now wearing the cowboy hat he’d been carrying and looking a goddamn ridiculous sight in his fringed vest and chaps. “You okay?” he asked, clearly concerned at the other Akutagawa’s coughing fit, and touched the small of his back. His twin nodded, finally getting his reaction under control.

They seemed to have decided that Akutagawa posed them no threat, as they walked in front of him. Rashomon had emerged from his twin’s cape, loosely wrapped around Acchan’s chest like a harness since he wasn’t interested in holding hands, and instead ran ahead, sword at the ready.

Atsushi and the other Akutagawa walked hand in hand, and Ryuu-chan held Atsushi’s other hand. They looked just like any family out for Halloween; dressed up in costumes and keeping track of excited kids, and they were holding hands. Akutagawa kept staring at that casual touch and wondering why it made his throat ache.

It didn’t matter why it made his throat ache.

They’d meet Dazai-san at this party, Dazai-san would negate this ability that was affecting him, and he would be home. It would soon be over, and this weird little family could go on and he could forget this ever happened, ascribe it to a bad dream, and move on with his life.

Akutagawa stopped walking.

Neither Atsushi nor the other Akutagawa seemed to realize, talking quietly with each other, in their own little world. Ryuu-chan noticed, though—he looked over his shoulder at Akutagawa, but didn’t say anything to his father. He waved his free hand, and Akutagawa found himself raising his own hand in acknowledgment, as the small family turned the corner and walked out of sight.

=====

The park that overlooked the bay wasn’t that busy after dark, which was fine. It was Halloween, there were events all over the city, it kept people busy and indoors, out of this frigid night air. Akutagawa folded his arms and looked out across the water, waves choppy.

He didn’t know what he wanted, now. He wanted none of this, but the way it felt like the first clean breath of air after drowning for so long kept haunting him. This wasn’t meant for someone like him, it never would be.

Akutagawa sat on a park bench and wondered if his absence had finally been noticed. Would they look for him? Or had he already been forgotten, the fragment of another life already lost?

He folded his arms, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

=====

“Did you sleep out here?”

Akutagawa opened his gummy eyes to see Atsushi standing in front of him, looking disgusted. He had both his hands on his hips and that accursed belt was jaunted out at an angle as if it were telegraphing its wearer’s emotions. Akutagawa blinked at him and scowled, then turned his head and coughed.

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion on my accommodations, weretiger,” he said, folding his arms again.

“Yeah, and I thought you weren’t a bum that slept on the streets,” Atsushi snapped back. “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?” He paused, the irritation dropping from his voice for a moment, the concern he carried for others emerging. “Is everything…okay?”

Akutagawa’s eyes darted to his hands, but he was wearing his fingerless gloves. Akutagawa exhaled and slid forward on the bench, standing and refusing to let show how stiff he was. “I just had the strangest dream, is all,” he said. “It was a peaceful world. You weren’t in it.”

“Oh ha ha,” Atsushi said, but there was still concern in his golden-violet eyes. “Are you sure that you’re okay, Akutagawa?”

Akutagawa slid his hands into his pockets and managed to maintain his neutral expression when one touched a set of plastic fangs. Surprised, he curled his hand around them and rubbed his thumb over the blunted plastic point of a tooth, before letting out a vocal scoff.

“Don’t waste your concern on me,” he said, tilting his head back. “There are more important things for you to worry about, weretiger.”

Akutagawa glanced out at the pink-grey skies over the water, hand still clasped tight around the plastic toy, and headed home.

#bungou stray dogs #sskk #shin soukoku #sskk² #sskkbb23 #fluff #squints and throws into the tag before returning to my safe space under the couch

858 notes · View notes

deansdelicate · 4 months ago

Text

we might just get away with it

dean ambrose x fem!reader

word count: [4.7k]

warnings: no use of y/n, mild cursing & sexual innuendos, in ring action (reader is a female superstar), overall two idiots being fluffy and in love <3

summary: the four times you and dean thought you were doing a good job at keeping your relationship under wraps + the one time you both ended up getting away with it.

The camera crew found themselves huddled in the narrow corridor of the arena, a likely place for them to be seeing as though The Authority loved to handle business backstage—but of course not without protection from the forces none other than The Shield.

The three men were already inside on their marks, probably talking amongst themselves with Steph and Hunter while you waited outside, preparing for your cue.

“We’re on in 30 seconds!” a stage hand announced, meticulously checking the stop watch and monitors, ensuring the cameras were in position and ready to roll once commercial break ended.

You bounced from foot to foot, getting yourself ready as time winded down. Glancing over at the crew who gave you a thumbs up, mouthing the final 10 seconds until the show was back on air.

“Action!”

Your fist came in contact with the door, pausing for a couple of seconds before hearing a voice say “come in” from the other side. The cameras followed as you twisted the handle, stepping into the ‘office’ and bringing the boys and bosses into the audience’s view.

The boys kept to themselves on the opposite end of the room, hardened gazes glued to their faces as they stared you down.

You rose your brows at the slightly, portraying your repulsion for the faction and their allegiance to the overbearing bosses. After a brief moment, you turned your attention to Stephanie and Hunter.

“Is there something we can do for you today?” Stephanie looked up from her laptop, shutting it with a sharp slap that made you flinch just a tad.

You shook it off, taking a deep breath before you spoke with the most confidence you could muster.

“I want a shot at the championship.”

Upon hearing your demand, Triple H even looked up from his own laptop, staring at you intently before turning to his wife. The two of them letting out strings of condescending laughter that had you furrowing your brows in annoyance.

“I love the confidence sweetheart, but I think you’ve forgotten how it works around here.” He smirked, bringing his clasped hands up to rest on the wooden desk.

“You can’t just barge into our office and demand a match for the title,” Steph started with a shake of her head.

“We’ve got bigger things to handle and maybe when you start acting like champion material then we can have a talk about a title opportunity.”

She wore that signature evil smirk, your jaw clenching as your rigid hands formed into fists at your sides.

“You bitc—”

Before you could swing, a set of hands wrapped around your waist and another grabbed your wrists, stopping them from crossing the distance to Steph’s cheek. You could feel them behind you, the three of them swarming in too close, making the already cramped room feel claustrophobic.

“Let’s not do anything rash, sweet thing.”

A voice spoke low, breath fanning down your neck sending shivers up your spine, leaving you frozen.

Yet you remained cool, your game face still on as Hunter stood up, shielding his shaken up wife.

“Get her out of here,” He demanded, pointing the boys to the door and scowling at you.

“I’m gonna get my match one way or another!”

You struggled and jerked in their holds, needing to be practically dragged across the room to where Roman held the door wide open.

Seth’s hold on your wrists retracted, pushing you out into the halls, but the pair of hands on your waist that belonged to none other than Dean Ambrose remained, not daring to let you go just yet.

His fingertips dug into the dough of your hips, curbing your fight and forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Next time you pull some crap like that, we won’t be so nice.” He murmured lowly, the two of you boring right through each other.

You scoffed, tongue running across your teeth before tilting your head at him, not making any move to remove his hands from your skin.

“That so? What are you gonna do about it? Power bomb me through a table? C’mon…hit me.” You dared, jutting your chin out though he retract.

Seth and Roman let out guffaws not phased at all, and Dean joined them a few seconds later, shaking their heads at how you managed to be standing in their presence without facing retaliation.

“The Authority and The Shield stand for the same thing: Justice. And whoever defies justice, man or woman, will get what’s coming to them sooner or later.” Seth declared.

You shifted your eyes up to his, “You mean The Authority made The Shield their bitch and now they do their dirty work for them?” You snapped back harshly, watching their faces fall with rage.

Roman grunted something under his breath, shooing you off. “Run along, you don’t want problems with The Shield.”

Dean laughed, squeezing your hips again, though the cameras didn’t catch it, your eyes drifting to meet his.

��What’re you gonna do? Send a little boy toy to get your justice for you?” He mocked.

You rolled your eyes before a small smirk came onto your face. Your eyes looking down between you both an innuendo that all the fans in the building laughed and hooted at.

“Trust me, you and I both know the boys I like are far from little.”

You roughly shoved his arms off of you and walked out of view while the camera panned to the boys peering down your path.

“Cut!” The stage hand called out, already getting the crew out of the tiny space in order to head to the next segment.

You waited patiently off to the side, passing each of the crew members a smile and ‘thank you’ before you skipped back over to the office where the boys stuck around.

“You idiot!” You screeched, drawing a weak fist to Dean’s chest as he snickered and wrapped his arms around your back, drawing you into him.

“I couldn’t help myself,” He shrugged, placing a chaste peck onto your lips, letting you kiss him despite some more not caring about the obvious lipstick marks left behind.

“Off script? Really, you two?” Steph crept up from behind, letting out a laugh despite trying to be serious because even she and her husband were notorious for doing the same back in the day.

Roman shook his head, light heartedly at you two. “I really thought I missed a line in the script.” He admitted, while everyone shared a laugh.

“Is that even PG?” Seth speculated, knowing Vince would have their heads on platters because you and Dean couldn’t help yourselves with a little sexual repartee.

Hunter snorted shifting his palm side to side knowing at the very least it could get flagged with a warning from the network, but it would definitely serve some entertainment from the fans and social media.

“You know one day the fans are going to catch on that this is really a thing.” He gestured between you and Dean’s bodies, the two of you still clinging to each other closely.

You rested your chin on his chest, looking up at him with a glint in your eyes that he returned just as passionately.

“We might just get away with it.”

Meet and greets were one of the more relaxing sides to the job and it was even better that you got to do it with your boyfriend sitting just a few chairs down.

Many fans, ranging of all ages took their time, greeting you with smiles, hugs, and funny stories, wishing you luck for a title match and you secretly knew was in the works.

A little girl approached you, her parents waving at you excitedly while they trailed behind her with a camera in hand making sure to document the moment their daughter got to meet her favorite wrestler. She sported your merch, alongside a title belt across her waist—the same one you were gunning after.

“You should’ve slapped Dean for not getting his hands off you!” she quipped instantly, hands on her hips, clearly disapproving of Dean’s behavior.

You bursted into a fit of laughter as did the other superstars around you, who high-fived the young gal, applauding her about the lesson Dean Ambrose needed to learn for messing with you. Being a baby face meant kids were especially protective of their favorites, and not wanting them to be tormented by ruthless heels.

“I really should have done that! I’ll remember for next time, okay?” You promised with a giggle, bending down to give her a warm hug.

She undid the belt around her waist, flipping it over so you could sign it. The two of you exchanging small talk before a familiar voice snuck in from behind you, prompting you both to shift your attention to the man himself.

“Hey! You planning on slapping me?” Dean declared, arms crossed over his chest defensively as Seth and Roman remained at his sides.

“Yeah! Don’t touch her again or else she’s going to slap you!”

The girl stood her ground, standing up straighter and glaring harshly at your boyfriend who played along, patting his cheek with a smirk.

“I don’t think she’d risk beating up a pretty face like mine,” he teased, looking over at you with a knowing smile that only you two could read into.

You grinned through the blush covering your cheeks, shaking your head, before pointing at the fan.

“I mean I couldn’t possibly ruin a pretty face like his, but maybe you could?” You suggested, watching as her jaw dropped.

“You mean I slap Dean?” She whispered in your ear, looking at you with hesitation.

You nodded assuringly, rubbing her shoulders like you were getting her pumped up for a fight.

“Yeah c’mon show him that no one messes with the future women’s champion.”

You hyped her up and soon all the superstars joined in chanting “slap him! slap him!”

Dean did his best to hold back a smile, getting down on his knees so that the girl could reach him. His arms spread wide, nodding and egging her on.

“You won’t hit me. Come on, I know you won’t—Oww!”

The slap was tame, even for a child, just a tap with a little force behind it. Instantly the girl cowered back, wrapping her arms around your frame hugging you closely as all the superstars and awaiting fans cheered her on for standing up for you.

“Way to go!” you praised, giving her a high-five and telling her how much she’d be a great wrestler in the future, maybe even the one to take the championship from you.

Eventually Dean slightly broke kayfabe, fist-bumping the girl and pinky promising that he wouldn’t put his hands on you again. All three men posed for a picture with her, frightened and panicky expressions on their faces as the girl held up a mighty fist.

She even got you and Dean to smile for a picture with her—and somehow no one noticed the dainty “D” initial that hung from the chain around your neck.

You sat in catering, joined by Naomi and Brie, the three of you catching up on life while tuning in to the match that played over the television. It was Seth versus Daniel, with Roman and Dean who got the chance to sit in on commentary for the night.

“I saw that interaction you and Dean had with that cute fan. You guys totally made her day.” Naomi grinned, noting how the little stunt you and Dean pulled was circulating around social media.

It was met with mostly positive lighthearted reactions that somehow didn’t revolve around the rumors that you were together in real life.

“Oh, she was adorable! I just wished she slapped Dean a little harder.” You shrieked, making the girls laugh thinking of how much fun this girl must have had.

Michael Cole’s voice drew your attention back to the TV.

“Dean last week you and the boys got into some stuff backstage with a certain female superstar. I suppose The Authority has you all on high alert after Steph nearly got attacked on your watch.”

The camera panned slightly to the commentators’ desk, where Dean’s fingertips tapped against his collarbones, seemingly forgetting the match in front of him at the mention of you.

“We’re used to threats of all kinds, but usually they aren’t this pretty or alluring. And she’s feisty, I’ll tell you that much, but I doubt she’ll want to mess with The Authority as long as The Shield is around,” he replied smugly, glancing over at Roman who nodded in agreement.

“She’s also got quite the smile, if you ask me! She’s drop-dead gorgeous,” The King, Jerry Lawler, jumped into the conversation, adding a whistle for good measure.

Dean’s face twisted in distaste as he shook his head at the legend, “Jeez, relax, would you, King? I’m sure she’s into the younger, more charming kinda guys—you know, piercing blue eyes, killer body, top-notch sense of humor?”

“Are you insinuating that—”

“What Dean means is that we’re not letting her distract us. In fact, she’s history from here on out.” Roman cut in.

Interrupting Cole from finishing his sentence that was sure to get Dean in hot water for making the entire match about his in real-life girlfriend whom he was irrevocably in love with.

The girls beside you whistled and giggled like middle-schoolers, knocking their elbows into your shoulders, knowing your boyfriend couldn’t help but get a little jealous even if it was just all for fun—what could you say? Your boyfriend was more than a little protective.

“Oh, he’s obsessed with you!” Brie teased, while you hung your head low, masking your blush behind your hair.

“What he is going to be is fired if he keeps it up.” You groaned half-jokingly, raising your head when you heard the bell ring and their theme song hit.

Roman and Dean slid into the ring, lifting their brother’s arm up in victory and celebrating together before retreating backstage through the crowd. But of course Dean couldn’t miss a poster with your name written across it, smirking at the fan who wore your merch and giving his nod of approval for support.

You quickly said goodbye to the girls, tossing your plate of food into the bins and heading towards the corridor where you knew they would be coming in from. When you arrived, they just so happened to get through the doors, arena security guards shaking their hands and posing for a quick picture and then heading off.

“Really? You know being on commentary means you comment on the match in front of you? Not your girlfriend.”

You crossed your arms across your chest, leaning against the walls as you gawked feigning exasperation.

Roman and Seth snickered, swinging their heads and heading off towards the carts to recuperate, letting you and Dean have your usual banter that turned into a love fest all too fast.

“Is there something going on between you and Jerry? Because I might just put him out of retirement.” He made his way towards you, lifting a speculating brow.

You let your arms fall across his waist, a cheeky smile seeping on to your features at the thought of him truly being jealous over Jerry Lawler, of all people. Yet you didn’t hesitate to iron out his worries, staring up at him fondly.

“It’s an honor to be one of his favorite female superstars, but I can assure you it’s all one sided. My sights are strictly set on a more younger, charming guy with piercing blue eyes and an impeccable sense of humor.”

You chided, poking at his cheek, watching the dimples form when he tried to hold back his smile.

“Some might even say good with the ladies?” He added with a wiggle of his brows while you threw your head back and laughed, pushing at his chest.

“Yeah, right. I’m the only lady he’s good with.”

He nodded in agreement, pulling you closer and placing a quick kiss on your forehead.

“Let’s get out of here before I do something else that gets me in trouble.”

You linked your fingers with his, the two of you strolling back towards the main area of the arena out of the public space.

As you made your way through the dimly lit corridors, a few fans who were taking bathroom and concession stand breaks caught sight of your backs. However, they didn’t recognize you out of your wrestling attire—curiously wondering who was the mystery lady was.

Dean watched the monitors intently, his knee bouncing up and down anxiously from where he was sitting in gorilla position tuning into your championship contender match against Nikki. The final minutes were winding down, and Brie had already been ejected, sent backstage after the ref caught her trying to aid her twin in the match.

“That’s my girl!” he clapped loud, standing up as you hit your finisher and got the pin—the rest of gorilla cheering for you, knowing it was a long time coming.

You hadn’t told him the outcome of the match, and no matter how hard he tried to get it out of you, it was all worth it seeing you celebrate and get one step closer to your first championship run. When you made it up the ramp and back through the curtain, you were instantly lifted off your feet, your arms clinging around his frame before being smothered in congratulatory kisses.

“I knew you were gonna win it.” He told you, setting you down and tucking strands of your hair behind your ear.

“I think I deserve a celebration tonight, don’t you?” You whispered secretly just for the two of you to hear, both of you sharing grins before he nodded, and placed a kiss on your lips.

“I say we get our segment over with, then get out of here?” He proposed, already hearing the stage hand calling out for the two of you to get into positions backstage.

“I’d like that a lot.” You agreed, taking his hand to where a stagehand was guiding you through the short segment.

Seth, Roman and Steph were already on their marks, greeting you with hugs and salutes before needing to step out of view while the cameras set up. They would be close behind Steph, acting as her personal security personnel for when she confronted you about your match on Sunday.

“Action!”

“Well, well, well,” Stephanie clapped her hands slowly, approaching you where you sat on the carts, icing your shoulder, “Congratulations on being the number one contender for the women’s championship, I guess you are champion material after all.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, grimacing at the strain in your shoulder before standing up to face her.

“Save it, Stephanie, and cut to the chase. What’s the catch? I know you wouldn’t make it this easy for me to get what I want.”

She frowned deceptively, “Do you really think I’m that cruel?” she glanced behind her, questioning the boys, “Can you guys believe that?”

They sneered at you, shaking their heads before Steph turned her attention back to you with a heavy sigh that always meant bad news.

“I’ll have you know that I always knew that you could do it, you just needed someone to light that fire underneath you. And I’m sure you’ll get the job done this Sunday. But just to be very sure, I think The Shield wouldn’t mind a front-row seat at your championship match.”

You clenched your jaw, glaring at her, “I don’t need them causing distractions.”

Dean snorted, gesturing to himself in a self-absorbed manner, “I’m flattered sweetheart, I really am, but your attention really should be on winning.”

You turned your nose up at him, looking the other way “Oh please, don’t let it get to your head Ambrose, you disgust me on many levels.”

Steph clapped her hands, looking at the faction, then back at you.

“Well, it’s settled. The Shield will be ringside for your championship match on Sunday. And I’ll be tuning in…champ.”

With that, she strutted away, leaving you and the boys behind with the camera still focused on you four.

“Stay out of my way,” you growled, eyeing each one of them down threateningly, not wanting your one championship opportunity to be at risk.

“Don’t worry about us.” Roman shook his head, walking off first.

“Wouldn’t want to let that championship slip from right under you.” Seth cackled manically, rubbing his hands together and following suit.

Only you and Dean remained, but this time instead of words being spoken aloud for everyone else to hear, his hands came up to cup around your ear, whispering words only two would ever know.

“I’ll be cheering you on. You know I always am. And you looked sexy out there, by the way.”

He backed off with a wink, leaving you flushed despite trying to play it off as hatred.

The crowd could only wonder what Dean had said to you, and it seemed like Cole and Jerry were just as curious, speaking over commentary about some ideas. Shortly after, the cameras cut, and once again, you were lifted off your feet, Dean hoisting you up a few inches off the ground to give you a proper hug after being rushed in gorilla.

“Congrats again, and don’t forget to go over the script changes!” Stephanie reminded, smiling as she waved goodbye to you and Dean, knowing you two would be pleasantly happy with creative’s turn on the storyline.

Dean raised an eyebrow, calling out to her “Script changes?”

Stephanie grinned, looking over her shoulder towards the both of you. “Just a little tweak for the next show. You’ll like it a lot.”

As she walked away, you and Dean exchanged curious glances not knowing what the script change could be on such short notice.

“Guess we better check those out,” you shrugged tossing the melted ice pack into a nearby trash bin.

He nodded, his hand finding yours again running his fingertips across your knuckles, leaning down to murmur against your lips.

“Yeah, but first, let’s get out of here and celebrate your win. And I meant what I said earlier…you look pretty damn sexy.”

“Lead the way, baby.” You leaned in, letting your lips brush his gingerly, a lingering kiss remaining until you were left to worship the rest of it in privacy.

“Get up, AJ!” you screamed, yanking her up by the hair and throwing her down into one of the corners of the ring.

Your boot met her midsection repeatedly until the ref pulled you back, giving her a moment to catch her breath while you and the official exchanged some words in the meantime.

The Shield boys kept to themselves, spread out on all three sides of the ring, keeping an eye on the entire match and most importantly, you.

To be quite honest, it was hard for Dean to hold back on his excitement, his tongue practically bruised from biting down on it, trying not to break out of character and into smiles or cheers when you got the upper hand in the match.

They were anxiously waiting for their cue; you picking AJ back up and throwing her towards the center of the ring, ready to go for your finisher. That’s when they got into positions, teetering up on the apron grabbing onto the ropes as if they were stalking their way in.

“What the hell is The Shield doing, Cole?” Jerry questioned, his voice filled with concern.

“I have no clue, but it can’t be good. We have to assume, ladies and gentleman, that Stephanie McMahon put them up to this,” Cole proposed.

You took notice of the men involving themselves in the biggest match of your life, brows pulled together in anger and frustration.

“Hey! What the hell is wrong with you guys?” You shouted, turning your attention to the boys who were now standing on the apron, sights set on you.

You walked towards Dean, and the ref headed towards Roman and Seth signaling for them to get down.

“Leave me the hell alone” You seethed, coming face to face with Dean. The only thing separating the both of you were the ring ropes.

“I know you like it.” He gloated, arms held wide, earning boos from the crowd.

You shook your head, turning away slightly only for the palm of your hand to meet his cheek with a harsh slap a few seconds later.

The crowd erupted in cheers as Dean pinched his eyes shut, shaking off the sting in his skin, putting on a cocky sneer that quickly had you angered again. You kept an eye on the titantron in front of you, aware that AJ would be coming in any second to catch you off guard, which was all a part of the finish.

Seth and Roman hopped back down onto the floor, while Dean took notice of AJ sprinting behind you. His arms shoving you out harm’s way in order to take the hit. Her legs knocking him to the floor, while she fell to the mat, unaware that you had backed into one of the corners, shocked at Dean’s sacrifice, but none the less not wasting time.

You quickly got to your feet, delivering a super-kick to her jaw before lifting her body into position for your finisher and hitting it in the center of the ring. You hurried into the pin, locking her legs and arm as the ref counted.

“1, 2, 3…ring the bell!”

Surprise and shock covered your features, your hands covering your face as you tried to hold back tears for backstage while the ref walked over to retrieve your title. AJ rolled out of the ring, giving you your moment to savor as the championship was placed in your arms and your theme song blasted through the sold-out arena.

You forced yourself off your knees, thrusting the championship high up in the air, gaining cheers and applauses from the audience who were on their feet. You swore you could jump into your boyfriend’s arms right then and there without a care in the world about scripts and keeping up the act—but you knew it’d all be worth it.

Seth, Roman, and Dean hopped back onto the apron, this time not faltering on letting themselves through the ropes, stalking their way towards you as your theme song suddenly got cut and the ref scrambled out towards safety.

“Uh oh, is The Shield going to spoil the best night of her WWE career?” Cole speculated.

“I hope not. The last thing we need is the new WWE women’s champ being put out of action all because of these three men.” Jerry added.

You swallowed thickly, clutching the championship to your chest, looking left and right for a way out that was impossible at this point. There was nowhere left for you to go, the crowd anxiously awaiting to see what was going to happen next.

Dean’s fingertips hovered over your face, clutching your skin delicately and forcing you to meet his orbs. You looked stunned, about to break in terror until suddenly a wide smile emerged across your features.

“Oh, my god! What the hell is going on?” The commentators cried out disturbingly.

Seth and Roman stepped back with laugher rumbling in their chests, clapping and pointing at the both of you as if they had known the real story all along.

Meanwhile, Dean closed the space between your lips, pulling you into a fervent kiss taking everyone aback. Your lips moved together in tandem, like they always did behind the scenes where no one had a clue you were flying right under their noses.

You both pulled away, smiling widely at each other, before he gestured towards you, reaching to grab your wrists and lifting it high up in the air, your theme song hitting once more, this time the crowd torn between cheers and boos.

Dean held you close, his pride evident in his eyes letting everything around him turning into white noise.

“My girl. My champ.” he whispered, speaking to you like you were the only ones in the world in that very moment.

You looked up at him, closing your eyes in bliss, before mouthing the words.

“We got away with it.”

💌 reblogs, tags, comments, + likes are greatly appreciated! leave a comment and let me know if want to be added to my taglist!! 💌

a/n: hi everyone!!! this is my first imagine/one-shot here on tumblr and im excited to be getting back into my wwe era. it's always fun revisiting my loves (aka: dean, roman, and seth), and i can't wait to mesh some stories with my fave taylor tracks. this one is loosely based off false god hehehe.

#wwe imagine #wwe oneshot #wwe x reader #dean ambrose x reader #dean ambrose x fem!reader #dean ambrose oneshot #dean ambrose imagine #dean ambrose smut #dean ambrose #seth rollins x reader #seth rollins imagine #roman reigns #roman reigns x reader #wwe fanfiction #wwe raw #wwe smackdown #wwe #wwe x taylor swift #dean ambrose x taylor swift

155 notes · View notes

kitsu-katsu · 2 years ago

Text

There's SO FUCKING MUCH going on in the QSMP with the eggs, the dragon, whatever Dark is, appearing for Leonarda and possibly being the same monster as Quackity's vision after Tilín's death. It possibly being what kills the eggs when the parents don't cime within a day, as BBH pointed out, it's weird that they just die like that, they're getting hunted

Cucurucho. In general. And his apparent rivalry with the angel, telling Maxo not to trust him. Spying on everyone even more now. Watching Slime sleep, watching the group of Maxo, BBH and Foolish as they try and piece together the truth. Him showing Slime footage of his daughter getting killed

The angel telling Slime to pick between bringing back Flipa or Tilín and him choosing Tilín hoping Quackity won't find out

Maxo wanting to make a church to bring his son Trump back, but not trusting Cucurucho, telling him this better not be a joke and Cucurucho laughing at him. Maxo fearing he might become a robot like Luzu, because nobody knows who the fuck messed with Luzu

All the parents of dead eggs are getting desperate, violent, vengeful and also closer to the truth

The eggs are most likely the lotus flower from Quackity's twitter dns. Keeping the players docile and complacent as long as they're there. The ones with dead eggs are swinging towards the other end of the spectrum

Whoever is controlling the whole island experiment also has letters, which mention something about Fabergé eggs (irl a set if 69 artisanal easter eggs for the russian tzar) and how many of them can be shipped out within a week. So the eggs we know are possibly not the only ones and whoever is running this whole thing is purposely sending out new ones

And also something about sheep's blood for potions... Because it's in style?? I don't even know where the letters came from, tbh

Translation:

Kind regards

Let's go back to the XVI century! We need to make a price quotation for sheep's blood. This last fashion trend in magic formulas should be of upmost importance for the laboratory. Yes, we already know that modern budgets almost never include sheep's blood, but this is what our fashion trends seem to require.

With appreciation, we wish to receive your commercial proposals as soon as possible. We thank your great collaboration in advance in preparing the price quotations for us

This is running DEEP

2K notes · View notes

playsystemsindia · 10 months ago

Text

#Commercial Swing Set Manufacturers #kidzlet #outdoor playground equipment #open gym equipment #playground equipment

0 notes

sehtoast · 4 months ago

Text

Tender Threads ( Homelander x OC )

chapter one: first impressions

chapter directory

summary: holding the heart of a self-proclaimed god is hard work, but someone's gotta do it. who'd have ever thought it would be some nobody, a simple street level hero-branded-vigilante, who would ascend to one of the seven coveted thrones and do just that?

tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, spidersona as original character, original trans male character, smut, sublander

It’s a night like any other in the concrete jungle of New York City. A streak of red swings through the streets by lines of webbing, eyes peeled for anyone disrupting the peace in his friendly neighborhood. Well, not his neighborhood exactly. He was just a vigilante after all. There’s plenty of fun to pick from, but only one instance could be so special to the city’s one and only Spider-Man– to Benjamin.

It’s not the quippy banter with the thugs breaking into the back of a bodega, nor is it the amusement he gets from webbing each of the fools in one big pile on the ground that makes this night memorable. It’s the interruption, the anomaly that appears all too silently from the sky.

“And just what do we have here, hm?”

The bug turns in surprise, steeling himself against the rush of anxiety that shoots through his veins. This is no ordinary supe here to gripe about him stealing their thunder. This is a man– a god, perhaps– in a whole ‘nother league.

Ben would recognize him by voice alone because it was impossible not to hear it at least once a day. Hell, hide the costume and he’d probably still recognize that face– because it’s everywhere. Billboards, magazines, fucking cereal boxes– you name it, he’s probably there.

Before him stands The Homelander, captain of The Seven, pretty much the face of Vought International. World’s most powerful supe.

“Oh, y’know.” He gestures. “Riffraff doing what they do, and me doing what I do.”

“Nicely done,” Homelander says, professional smile etched into his face like he’d rehearsed this. “You know, good work like this is why we’ve been nipping at your heels, kiddo. Really wish you’d stop making us chase you around.”

And there it is. This was no chance meeting– as if one of the big boys from The Seven would ever be caught dead in an alley in Harlem of all places. Spidey cocks a brow behind his mask. Vought must be desperate.

See, he’s been particularly unlucky lately.

Even before he donned the mantle of Spider-Man, it was never about being in the big leagues. Benjamin mused upon the idea of it, but he could never find himself truly taken with the idea of selling himself as a hero. Not only was the mere idea of commercializing his ability to do a unique good revolting, it would strip away one of the only true freedoms he has. Of course, Vought knew nothing of his reasons– not that they’d care either way– and were ardently pursuing him to fill the now vacant seat formerly belonging to Translucent.

And now, as his luck would have it, they’ve sent their biggest dog to fetch their desired toy.

Benjamin’s sixth sense tells him nothing in the moment. No hidden danger, no tickling of warnings to bolt. A goose chase spanning two months finally coming to a titanic head as The fucking Homelander himself holds him not-quite-hostage in an alleyway.

“You’re still their top pick, you know,” Homelander says, nodding over to the webbed pile of crooks. “You play by their rules without even being on the team. A little… sloppy, but effective. Tell me, how is it you’re going to turn down a spot in the biggest of the big leagues, hm? You’ve pretty much skipped the line.” Homelander scuffs the sole of his boot against the ground, kicking a pebble to the side as he meanders closer. “What, is vigilantism more fun? You like having all those warrants? Vought could clear ‘em up. Get you set straight in the eyes of the law, make you official. Pay you for your late night troubles…”

Ben bristles as he comes closer. It’s not the proximity necessarily, it’s…

It’s like he’s looking straight through the mask.

Benjamin releases a tight breath. “My answer isn’t changing.” He says firmly, despite the anxiety cooking in his chest. He is not a confident man by any stretch. The most bravado he’ll ever know in his life comes from being Spidey. Nobody can see him– nobody knows who he is when he’s got the mask on. He can be whoever he wants. But right now he feels see through.

Pick your words carefully, he thinks to himself.

“I’m not a show pony for Vought to extort.”

Don’t cave– do not give him that satisfaction. It’s what he wants.

He wouldn’t work for Vought. He’s chosen years of barely scraping by rather than taking a tech job with them as a regular person, why the fuck would he do it as a supe? What, he’s just supposed to ignore the endless skeletons in their closet? The pain and suffering, all the people he’s seen online talking about how Vought threw money at them to not sue after some accident or another only to up and disappear?

Ben idolized heroes for so long. His powers didn’t manifest until his late teens and he grew up wanting to be just like the superheroes that made the world a better place– until he realized that those types were so few and far between that they might as well not even exist. All of his childhood heroes were NDAs and settlements, pain and suffering, all covered with media stunts and weak, lazy apologies. Posters were torn down, action figures tossed in the trash– he moved on and eventually became the hero he wished his idols would've been.

“Show pony? Pfffft,” Homelander laughs, blowing a raspberry. “Please. Look at yourself. Skin tight red and blue suit, leaving messes of webs everywhere you go. Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but you’re already there.”

“They parade you guys around like trophies,” Ben counters, trying to keep the edge off his tone. “I’m not in this to make money for some rich-fuck shareholders, y’know.”

“And? See, you told every single agent before me that you were in ‘this’ to make a difference.”

Fuck.

“You know how much fucking range you’d have in The Seven?” Homelander splays his arms wide as if to show the scale of the world. Agitation is starting to write itself on his face, leaking free in the twitches of his eye and those rapid blinks. He clearly didn’t expect to have to work for this. “You could help anyone anywhere, all you have to do is say yes.”

The worst part? That’s not technically a lie. And it’s not not tempting.

“I’m sure you’ll see reason,” Homelander smirks, sauntering just the slightest bit closer. “Benjamin.”

The bug’s heart drops to his gut, eyes going wide and glancing in the direction of the pile of webbed crooks in the hopes they neither heard nor will a last name be following.

Fuck, fuck–

They have his name.

“Don’t–”

“Don’t what?” Homelander asks innocently, lips curling even sharper. “You really thought we wouldn’t know who you are? Pff– hah! Please.”

Closer and closer, every step feeling like a lifetime.

“I can see through that mask, you know. Can see how scared you are.” Homelander tuts as he comes within arms reach. “I can hear the pitter patter of your little heart…”

Ben gulps, breaths coming heavy.

“And…” Homelander leans forward, voice a whisper. “I’m sure you understand, Mister Colyer, that I could kill you right now…” A hand falls to rest on Ben’s shoulder, gripping tight. “I really don’t like being told no.”

Ben’s voice shakes and his knees quake, totally ready to dart as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“I'm… not– I'm not doing it.”

His sixth sense doesn’t stir.

Homelander’s bluffing. But, really… So is he.

It’s like the world froze. Time stands still as they stare at one another. Benjamin can see the anger dancing in Homelander’s eyes, but nothing comes of it.

Not even when the bug backs away and that leather clad hands falls free from his shoulder.

“Look, uh… this was nice, y’know?”

Smooth, Ben. Smooth.

“But uh, just call me Randy Jackson, because it’s uhm... it's gonna be a no from me, dawg.” Terrible time for humor, but something had to break the tension. “Goodbye, Homelander.”

And with that, Ben bolts, vaulting up and off the side of a building to propel himself into the night.

Homelander remains in the alley, still stunned, a piercing ring deafening the world around him. He lingers, thoughts racing.

Turned down by the bug, huh champ?

Of course, of fucking course there would be some commentary.

“Hey big guy, you gonna let us go?”

And of course there’s some filth bold enough to interrupt him.

Homelander turns, eye twitching as he scans the pile of mud practically cocooned in webbing. They expect him to release them. After all, Spider-Man is a vigilante. None of his catches are technically official, though there’s usually enough evidence for that fact to be ignored.

“C’mon, you know we ain’t done no harm! Me and the boys were just walkin’ by is all.”

The man in question chuckles nervously at him.

Homelander saunters closer, hands behind his back. He stands over the man, inspecting every little detail. The growing fear in his eyes, the way he sweats.

Putrid. Echoes the voice in his mind. Remind them of who they’re talking to. Of the god they disrespect.

He lifts his foot, placing it dead center on the man’s chest.

“No– please, I didn’t–”

He presses down slowly, grin etching onto his face as pleas turn to tight gasps. The others in the webbing try to scramble, but they can’t escape.

They’re at his mercy. As they should be.

A crunching sound precedes his favorite part. Ribs and muscle give way and a loud squelch graces his ears and the ringing– oh the ringing stops. It's serene, knowing what power he holds. What iron fist he truly has wrapped around the neck of this world.

Attaboy.

To think they’d think him so low as to aid them. To think they’d get to live after seeing him rejected so brazenly.

Now for the rest.

As he takes care of the others, he wonders just how persuasive he'll need to be with the little spider. What threads must he pull to get his way?

#homelander #homelander x oc #homelander x omc #the boys fanfiction #homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #antony starr #the boys

80 notes · View notes