#again. sorta. its implied | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tightjeansjavi · 1 year ago

Text

Mine

A/N: um…hi! I write piss kink now? 👹 I don’t know what came over me today but I was sitting at my desk and just thinking about that mean old man, when all of a sudden, I thought hmm…what would it be like if Joel pissed on me? Then I proceeded to think about the prospect of him peeing on me while I was in a WORK meeting and well, you guess where this is going ;) oh! Fun fact, I wrote most of this in the shower! (How fitting) don’t read if this sorta content disturbs you, and if there’s any puritans out there that wanna call me a sick fuck and tell me I’m going to hell, baby, I’m already there! Feminism went completely out the window on this one!

~word count: 2.7k~

Summary: Joel Miller fucks you the same way he does every night��until he decides to switch things up for the first time.

Pairing | dark!joel x f!reader

Warnings: dark!joel, rough/mean Joel, overstimulation, heavy on the degrading kink, breeding kink, biting, dom/sub dynamic, oral f receiving, spit kink, pussy slapping, slight dubcon, piss kink, implied free use, Joel calls the reader his bitch and cocksleeve, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, no specific age for the reader, reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!

Hot wisps of breath fan the shell of your ear. There’s a sheen of sweat coating your skin when his tongue darts out to taste a droplet of your perspiration on his tongue. His strong hips and thighs cage you posessively as he drives his cock further into your already ruined and messy cunt. His thrusts are relentless, and with each heavy punch of his cock into your cervix, you’re gasping for air; begging, pleading for him to let you breathe, but he always refuses.

He takes you like this the same way every night. Never soft and sweet, always rough and demanding. He’s like a rabid dog that broke away from its chain and headed straight for you. Ripping, clawing, and gnawing on your soft flesh. He takes and takes when, and however he chooses.

His large hands, calloused and scarred, act as a brand upon your skin. He molds you to his liking, pressing your face further into the seedy mattress till you can taste the dust ridden fibers on your tongue. His hands are capable of inflicting so much pain, and you can only imagine how many people he has killed with them.

He grunts against your ear, teeth biting down on the soft lobe till you’re yelping for him to stop and he removes his heavy hand from your soft cheek momentarily, only to grasp your hair between his fingers and roughly yank your head up from the mattress. Hot tears blur your vision. You’re in a confused daze, his words sounding muffled as you gulp down lungfuls of air.

“Ain’t much use to me if my favorite cocksleeve stops breathin’, sweetheart.” He gruffly teases, an edge of playfulness in his tone. “Keep on breathin’ in that sweet, sweet air. It’s the only shred of kindness you’re gonna get from me tonight.”

He forces your back to meet his chest, arching your spine to meet the heavy thrusts of his cock splitting you open. He drops your hair, your scalp feeling raw and tender from how hard he was yanking on it. His strong arms encase around your middle, fat fingers tormenting your nipples. He squeezes and pinches them before he shoves you right back down into the mattress.

“Turn your head to the side so that you can fuckin’ breathe.” Is all he says while he reaches for the old headboard for leverage. The shitty mattress shakes and squeaks beneath the weight of his heavy thrusts when he picks up his grueling rhythm, again.

You listen to his advice, if you would even call it that, and turn your cheek to the side so that your airway isn’t restricted. Your trembling hands reach for the tattered sheets, and your fists clench the fabric for any sense of support.

“Atta girl.” He rasps, blunt fingernails dig fiercely into the soft flesh of your hips, taking and marking you with red crescents indented in your skin.

“J-Joel.” You try to find your words, but they are muffled and fragmented. Your mind is too focused and centered on the pleasure rippling through your body to even try and protest.

“Shuddup and take it like you always do, baby. Know you can. Don’t gotta act stubborn about it.” He hisses between his clenched teeth, bending his chest forwards against your arched back. He sinks his teeth into the spot where your shoulder blades meet.

In some twisted and erotic way, he is mating you. His primal nature to breed you, and claim you as his; only his, takes over as he bites down on your flesh hard enough to draw blood to the surface of your delicate skin. And you have no choice but to let him, because despite how used and abused Joel Miller makes you feel, you keep coming back for more because no one fucks you like he does.

And when you don’t respond to his crudeness and condescending tone, he feels pleased by your submissiveness and need to please him.

“Was startin’ to think that my perfect little fuck toy wasn’t gonna show up for her fucking tonight. Thought maybe she had finally woken up and realized her worth, but then I find ya outside my door like a stray puppy jus’ waitin’ to be fucked.” He grunts deeply, slowing the movement of his hips before drawing them back slowly. “Cus’ no matter how many times you try to deny it, you love bein’ my cock sleeve. My fuck toy. You fuckin’ live for that shit baby, and you know what? I think it’s about time that I reward you.” He lets out a throaty breath before driving his hips forward, knocking the air from your lungs in tandem with his hips sharply jutting into the soft swell your ass.

His sweat slick skin slaps against yours, the obscene sounds of sex, and your ruined pussy squelching around the thick intrusion of his cock, send your eyes rolling back into your skull when you struggle to lift your cheek from the mattress to look over at him.

“W—what kind of reward?” You choke out, lips falling open in an o shape when his fat cock head nudges against that inner soft and spongy spot deep within the walls of your inviting warmth.

He chuffs a laugh, lifting his head up from where his teeth were just embedded into your skin. “Ah, there she is. Eager as ever, huh? Be fuckin’ patient, baby. Before I change my mind and decide you don’t deserve a reward at all.” He snaps, slamming his hips forward once more before he draws them back again. He slips out of your sopping pussy completely, leaving you on the edge of your approaching orgasm.

His cock is glistening in the low light, a creamy ring of your combined arousal coats the thick, veiny girth of his cock. He scoots back just enough so that he can watch the way your pussy pulses and drools a trail of enticing slick down between your trembling thighs.

He uses his thumbs to pry your inner lips apart before he spits a glob of saliva between your gaped, pulsing hole, and down to your untouched clit, swollen and puffy with need.

“Such a messy little pussy. You should see the way she’s winkin’ at me right now. So needy and desperate for my cock to fill her up with my seed, ain’t that right?” He sounds drunk, words slurred together, darkened eyes glazed over in lust. He licks his lips, inhaling the heady scent of your arousal like a hound dog locked on a trail. “Smell so fuckin’ sweet, too.” He groans before surging forward, burying his face between your parted thighs.

He’s never eaten you out before. Always claiming that you were undeserving of his skilled mouth and tongue. But tonight he’s finally given into tasting you, and once he’s had a lick, he can’t stop. He keeps you pried apart at his leisure, dragging his broad nose right through your trail of slick from the source. His lips suckle on your clit before dragging downwards to tease your folds, sucking on them, too. He’s eating you as if your pussy, and her sweet, sweet, nectar is his life source.

Your body jolts forward when his wiry beard scrapes at the apex of your thighs. He growls against you before reaching around for your hips and anchoring you in place once more so he can continue feasting.

He obscenely slurps and groans against your cunt before drawing his face back for a lungful of air. His chin and beard are glistening, coated in your arousal when he licks you from his lips. You think that maybe he’s finally having a change of heart when he flips you onto your back with ease, your breasts bounce from the movement when your back hits the mattress with a soft thud.

He never strays from fucking you from behind, on your knees with your face smashed into his mattress. That’s how he always takes you. His way only. And yet, here you are staring up at him with your big doe eyes bright and innocent. Your lips parted when he grabs the back of your knees and presses them towards your chest.

“Make yourself useful and hold those for me, will ya?” He barks out an order.

You scramble to grab the underside of your knees, sweaty fingers nearly slipping before you are able to have a solid grip around them.

“Good girl.” He nods before wedging himself between the small opening of your thighs. He catches that almost hopeful glint in your eyes and shoots it down immediately with an intimidating glare.

He brings one hand to the back of your scalp, roughly yanking your head upwards so you’re making direct eye contact with him. His dominant hand is loosely wrapped around the shaft of his cock, and he slaps the fat mushroom head against your puffy clit to gain your attention. “You focus right here.” He snips, brows furrowed together in a harsh line across his forehead. “Don’t you go and gettin’ this twisted, ya hear me? I know how you women work. Y’all think that jus’ cause a man does somethin’ different for once, that he’s softenin’ up to ya. He ain’t. You’re still my bitch, my little cocksleeve, and you’d best be wise to remember that, baby.”

“Y-Yes, Joel. I’m still your—”

He cuts you off with a low snarl when he begins to feed you his cock from this angle inch by inch, glancing down between your bodies so he can see your pussy pulling him in further. “That you are, my girl. Still feelin’ jus’ as eager for your little reward?” He questions with a cock of his brow, smirk tugging across his devious face.

“Please.” You beg him softly, not understanding what it was you were begging him for in the first place.

“Such an eager little cocksleeve to be pumped full of my seed, baby. Never thought I’d see the day.” He chuckles, pressing his hips forward till he’s completely bottomed out inside of you, and the coarse thatch of hair above his pubic bone presses into your clit.

Wait…what?

You look at him dumbfounded, shaking your head and hoping that you just misunderstood what he was saying. “What?”

“What?” He mocks your surprised tone condescendingly.

“Joel.” You try to reason with him, “we—we can’t! I—I don’t want to carry your fucking kid!”

“Aw.” He pouts, drawing his hips back before slamming them forward again. “You don’t wanna be filled to the fuckin’ brim with my seed? You don’t think your pussy wants that, baby? I think she does.” He teases.

“No, Joel. Please. Anything but that. You can come on my tits, my face, just please—not inside!” Your mind is already reeling at the possibility of having to carry Joel Miller’s fucking offspring in a world such as this one. You felt like one of those breeding mares shipped off to some stud farm to be passed around between stallions till one of their foals would inevitably stick—

He laughs cruelly at your fear and the way it dots your vision. He can imagine exactly what’s going through your mind at that very moment. “You should see your fuckin’ face right now.” He snickers. “Relax, sweetheart. I got a vasectomy years before the outbreak.”

“Jesus fuck, Joel! Why didn’t you just start off with that?!” You yell in his face, wishing you could punch that stupid grin right from the perfect pout of his kissable lips. You feel the tension visibly leave your shoulders when he satiates your fears of pregnancy, even if he does it in such a cruel manner.

“Cus’ I like toyin’ with ya. It’s entertainment for me, baby. You’re so easy to play with. I can do it with my eyes closed.” He muses before rolling his hips forward.

“You’re such a dick for that.” You attempt to chastise him, but your attempt is fruitless.

“Now, don’t go thinkin’ you’re entirely off the hook now, sweetheart. I do believe you said earlier that I could do anythin’ else I wanted to ya, right? Your words, baby. Not mine.”

Damn, his mind is sharper than a fucking arrow.

“Yeah…I did say that you could cum on my tits, or my face—”

“Mmm…nope. That ain’t gonna cut it for me unfortunately. I think I wanna do somethin’ else.” He trailed off, meeting your slightly nervous gaze with a small tilt of his head. How could his words and body language always be so fucking…mean?

“Okay, well, what else do you want to do?”

He shrugs his shoulders in disinterest before he grabs your hands that are still secured around the backs of your knees and removes them quickly so that your thighs fall open. He wants you spread at his mercy when he begins to ram into you, over, and over again. “You’re just gonna have to wait and find out.” He grunts deeply, bending down at an angle so he can nip at the juncture of your neck.

Your head lolls to the side so he has easier access and the pleasure starts to coarse through your body till he moves his mouth down the clavicle of your chest. First he starts off with chaste kisses to the swells of your breasts, and then he toys with the pert nipple between his lips. You let out a soft mewl that quickly turns into a high pitched yelp when his teeth sink into the sensitive pebbled flesh, hard.

“OW!” You cry out at the assault of his mouth. He does it again before switching to your other nipple, delivering the same mistreatment before he soothes the broken skin with his tongue.

You jokingly call him an animal thinking that he would disagree and scold you for it, but instead…he leans into that side of himself. He fucking loves it.

“Yeah, baby. I am a fuckin’ animal. You got that damn right.”

He fucks you like one too, till your creaming around his cock, leaking out around his thick girth that continuously punches into your pussy. He slips out suddenly with a wet squelch, leaving you feeling a little dazed and positively fucked out.

“Still want your reward, baby?”

You nod dumbly, cock drunk and eyes glazed with stars still twinkling behind them.

“Alright, my little cocksleeve. Close those pretty eyes for me, and no peekin!’”

Your eyes snap shut on command, chest rising and falling as you catch your breath.

The old mattress squeaks when his weight rises from it. You think about risking a peek to see what exactly it is that he’s doing, but you decide against it.

He stands above you on the mattress at his full height, looming over your spread legs while your ruined pussy is still drooling along the soiled sheets. He looks down at you with his cock wedged between his fist.

You can hear the wet sound of his fist jerking himself off before you feel the hot ropes of his seed coating your face, lips, neck, chest and lower. He shoots a load across your tummy, and right down to your pretty spread pussy.

Well, I suppose that’s a nice…reward? You think to yourself.

“Ain’t done yet, sweetheart.” He scolds you lightly from above when he sees your thighs beginning to close up like a nighttime flower closing its petals till the sweet kiss of sunrise.

He really has more than that? Damn, I underestimated this sick son of a bitch.

He relaxes his shoulders, letting out a decompressing sigh before he slowly releases his bladder with a sick smirk plastered on his face.

First, you detect the familiar stench of urine, and then the steaming liquid lands on your face, trickling down your lips. You let out a sound of protest and lift your hands above your head to shield yourself from his piss. It trails down the valley of your breasts, down your stomach and between your thighs, mixing into the trail of slick between them.

He’s marking you like a fucking dog marks his bitch, and you’ve never felt more degraded and humiliated in your entire life till you find youself under Joel Miller’s golden fucking shower. The stench of urine and cum stings your eyes and the sensitive hairs in your nose.

He bends down, cock now softened between his thighs and places one hand along the side of your face, brushing away a stray dribble of cum and piss from your lips with his calloused thumb.

“Now, no other man is ever gonna want to fuck my bitch when she’s reekin’ of my piss and cum.”

~~~

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bunnwich · 7 months ago

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Devourer👑(Scar!Leona x Yuu) 01

Leona got everything he wanted, except for one thing. After 7 long years of being king, Yuu comes back into his life. As Yuu finds themselves in his nightmare, will they be able to "find " Leona and wake him? Or will they both be devoured?

Characters: Leona Kingscholar x Yuu!Reader (GN. No physical description for Yuu. They/Them pronouns. Yuu majors in alchemy at NRC.)

Words: 5k, 3rd person Notes: A darker AU based on Leona’s Chapter 7 Dream. Part 1 of ??? Not sure if I will continue this AU but it was fun as an exercise to write a bit of more of a darker and sinister Leona for once. LMK if you like this sorta thing?

Parts: Part 1, Part 2

CW: Murder, Slight Dark themes??, Pushing of physical boundaries.

Tagging: I will be tagging in comments!

From the moment he took the throne after his brother’s death, whispers filled the kingdom, unease and ridicule trailing him like a shadow. He remained in the heart of the people as a scar of a prince on the divine oligarchy’s legacy. A black stain of spilled ink over the Sunset Savanna’s entire proud history. Once seen as a prince with little promise, he had sat as a king for seven long years now, ruling with an iron fist and a sharp tongue.

The “when” was foggy now, a few months, a year ago? Leona, as they used to know him, had personally recruited them to head an experimental “agricultural development program,” aimed at alleviating the famine gripping the kingdom. Yuu supposed he found out about their internship and majors sometime after they graduated. The years after Night Raven College had been hard and their old school life seemed almost idyllic compared to the world outside. After their friends scattered to the winds to start their own lives, Yuu had been left behind to pick up the pieces of a shattered life. Alchemy, the study of magical plants, was one of the only ways to make them feel competent in a world surrounded by people often more powerful than themself. They had gotten quite good at it, but it felt surreal to be bestowed such an “honor” from a king after so many years.

They hadn't seen Leona Kingscholar in nearly a decade after all. --

It was rounding the third hour of a meeting, and the afternoon heat was blistering. Yuu was slumped in their stone chair, mind starting to wander, eyes lulling dangerously closed. After a brief silence, a single voice broke the once-quiet discussion of the royal budget, and their trance.

“Your Highness! We cannot afford to execute this plan! This…aid program to provide outreach to the Outlands.” The council member never even bothered to look over at Yuu themselves. Even when he was implying their very existence at this council was an unwelcome one.

Seated around the oval table, each other council member avoided Leona’s piercing gaze. However, Yuu’s eyes flicked to the man seated next to them. The king was draped lazily across his chair, his expression one of equal parts calculation and boredom.

Oh? Their eyes widened, the elders rarely stood their ground with him.

“Hm? And why not?” Leona’s voice was low and menacing as his emerald eyes narrowed, deep voice cracking through the entire throne room. He was dressed in his standard black dashiki suit, its sleek fabric adorned with shimmering gold accents that seemed to catch the light with his every movement. The suit’s high collar stood proud, a dark canvas for the multiple beaded and gold necklaces that dripped over his chest.

"Your Majesty, diverting even more of our time and resources to the coastal neighborhoods is a mistake.” Councilman Griza, a giraffe beastman, braver than the rest, spoke again, his voice shaking only slightly. “Those…people have shown time and time again they are a threat to the capital. Offering aid will only embolden them, send mixed messages. Especially with how things have been as of late..." His malice made him braver it seemed, his resentment of the outlanders barely concealed.

“How convenient.” Leona sneered, slouching forward. His voice was a slow rumble, dangerous and intentional. “Of course, they’ve been aggressive. Anyone would be if they were historically treated like pests...starved, shunned, discarded.” He stood, palms slapping against the table, his claws scraping the stone discordantly. “They’ve been cornered, can't expect them not to bite.”

Each of his movements was a steady prowl as he circled the long table, his brown sash flowing across his shoulder. The councilman flinched as Leona suddenly stopped behind him, looming like a dark cloud over the man. “I think sometimes you all forget, I know what it’s like to be cast aside. And…to hunger for something denied.” His eyes scanned the table’s occupants and Yuu made sure to look down before he could make eye contact with them.

They knew their place, as the youngest and arguably least qualified…they tended to keep their mouth shut unless their opinion was asked.

He went on. “...Starve someone long enough, treat them like the dirt beneath your feet, and then when they lash out, suddenly they’re the problem? How noble of you to twist the narrative, Griza.”

Another councilman, Lord Danga, a zebra beastman, cleared his throat nervously. “With all due respect, my King, our resources are already stretched so thin this year. The Sunrise City’s people must come first, our people. Surely you can see that?”

Leona leaned forward, his sharp green eyes locking onto the man, his claws still tapping rhythmically against the back of Griza’s stone chair. “ Oh? Our people?” His voice was low and venomous. “Tell me something…Lord Danga. When you hoarded grain last season for your own settlements and let three nearby jackal villages go hungry, were those not ‘our people’? Or did they suddenly stop counting?” He shrugged.

“I-”

Leona cut him off with a sharp glare. “...And now you all want to sit here and preach to me about where my mercy should begin and end?”

An elephant beastman, emboldened by frustration, stood up. "It’s not about your mercy, Your Majesty. It’s about strategy! Strength! If we appear weak to those in the Outlands, those people will take advantage of us and our generosity as they have been the past few dry seasons!” He slammed his fist on the table.

Leona scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. “Do you know what really makes a kingdom weak?” He leaned more of his weight against Griza’s chair, the legs scraping loudly across the stone floor, as he suddenly pulled the old man and his seat backwards.

The giraffe beastman in question froze and nobody spoke, even breathed. Yuu found themself barely able to swallow.

“Fear.” Leona hissed.

“Short-sighted, foolish, hypocrites who think power means hoarding everything for themselves.” He spoke slowly, his voice lowering with menace. “You all aren’t protecting this kingdom. You’re choking it.”

Griza stiffened below him, hazel eyes downcasted. Beneath his breath, he muttered something Yuu couldn’t hear.

“What was that?” Leona’s voice was sharp enough to cut.

“Hmph.” He tried to keep his lip stiff. “I... I only meant that... your father would have-”

“Go on. Finish that sentence…” Leona’s growling tone was dark, and dangerous, and his eyes glowed with a barely restrained fury.

The councilman’s lips quivered openly now, but he remained silent.

“...”

“I see. A lesson needs to be learned.” Leona exhaled sharply, his patience visibly thinning. “I don’t need comparisons, and I certainly don’t need your approval to do what’s right for my people, all of them.”

The room fell silent. Leona’s soft chuckle echoed through the room, cold and mocking. “Weak, huh?” He laid both hands on Griza’s shoulder, digging his claws into his white council member robes.

The man squealed like a stuck pig, trembling under Leona’s hand. There was no escape.

“Let me show you what real weakness looks like.”

Before any of the councilmen or Yuu could react, Leona’s fingers clenched and his knuckles turned white. He muttered a familiar incantation and the man stilled in his grip, before his body seized violently. Sand spilled from Leona’s fingertips, snaking around the old man’s face, frozen in fear as his panicked eyes darted to his peers.

It was over in seconds, he didn’t even have time to scream. No one did.

“You see,” Leona said, his tone casual as “Griza” crumbled into a lifeless heap of sand in the pulled-out chair. “True weakness is being so afraid of the past that it gets in the way of the progress of the future.” His hand made an exaggerated flourish.

He turned to the remaining council members, clapping the sand from his palms. “You call yourselves leaders, yet you sit here staring at me with your mouths agape…like frightened prey.”

He cleared his throat, sliding his claws through his dark hair casually as he paced back toward his seat. “…The coastal neighborhoods will continue to be eligible in our restoration project through the dry season.”

No one dared speak, except to echo one word.

“Yes…”

Leona nodded with finality. “Good.” He moved toward the throne’s platform, the weight of his authority filling the room as he climbed the steps, taking his rightful seat. “You’re all dismissed.” He waved.

The council members scrambled to bow before filing out, leaving Yuu alone with their new king, too stupid to move. They always heard you shouldn’t run from a predator.

While Leona stared satisfied at the pile of sand drifting from the empty chair, they forced their weak legs to work again, finally sliding from their seat at the table and retreating toward the throne’s steps. As Yuu stood rigid at the edge of the dais, their hands clasped tightly in front of them, palms sweating as they tried to still the faint tremor that betrayed their nerves.

The room felt impossibly quiet now, the air heavy with humidity and the unspoken aftermath of what had just transpired. A few feet away lay the remains of what was once Councilman Griza. a man whose leering gaze and oily words had made Yuu’s skin crawl on more than one occasion.

Now, there was nothing left of him but dust.

Their time assisting in infirmaries for their college internship taught them that death usually smelled like something: decay, burning flesh, blood but...here a man lay, as if he had been ripped from existence.

Nothing.

Yuu couldn’t bring themselves to look away from the dusty remains, though bile churned in their stomach anyway. They should have felt horror. Or grief. Anything other than this cold, detached emptiness and macabre curiosity. But Griza had been a contemptible man, a social-climbing parasite who had delighted in undermining Leona at every opportunity. Was it so wrong not to mourn him?

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps as the council members continued to flee the room, their fear a tangible presence in the air. Yuu couldn’t blame them.

Their fingers tightened on the fabric of their own white robes, trembling creeping back into their hands. Drawing on every ounce of composure, they dipped into a shallow bow at the steps, the fabric of their clothing brushing against their knees. "Is there... anything else you require of me, Your Majesty?" Yuu finally asked, their voice soft but steady. Their gaze dropped to the floor as they clutched the folds of their robe like a lifeline.

Heart pounding in their chest, each beat was a sobering reminder that they were still alive...still here, unlike Griza.

Seeing them still there, Leona’s low chuckle rippled through the room, smooth as silk yet sharp enough to cut their composure.

They straightened cautiously, their gaze lifting just in time to see the king rise from his throne. When he moved, it was slow and deliberate, his footsteps echoing against the polished stone floor as he approached them.

"Anything I require?" he drawled, amusement coloring his voice. "How polite of you."

Before Yuu could respond, his clawed fingers curled under their chin, tilting their face upward. The warmth of his touch seared against their skin, forcing them to meet his piercing green gaze. Yuu’s breath hitched, their composure slipping for the briefest moment as his smirk deepened.

"You saw what happened just now," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft, almost a purr. "And this is your response?" His sharp black nail tapped on their chin, thumbing the divot below their bottom lip.

Yuu swallowed hard, trying not to think that this was the same touch that just turned a man to ash. The weight of his scrutiny pressed down on them like a physical force. His eyes searched theirs, sharp and unrelenting, as though he could strip away every carefully constructed defense they’d built. He studied their face like a puzzle he intended to solve, his smirk deepening when his eyes flicked to their hands, still pulling at the fabric of their robes tight.

“Tell me.” he started, leaning closer, the warmth of his palm seeping into their skin, a stark contrast to the cold knot forming in their stomach. "What do you really think?"

Yuu’s pulse thundered in their ears, their mind racing as they searched his face for some trace of the man they once knew. Wishful thinking. His proximity was suffocating, his presence an overwhelming force that left them no room to breathe.

No, this wasn’t the Leona they remembered, the lazy boy who had once scoffed at the pomp and circumstance of royal life.

The man before them now was a king, his sharp edges honed to a deadly point by years of bitterness and isolation. He wore his title like impenetrable armor, his every movement, and word laced with the weight of his new authority.

“I-” They looked up at him.

His hair, once unkempt and free-falling, was slicked back from his forehead, threaded with faint spirals of grey that hadn’t been there in his youth. The heavy makeup around his eyes only deepened the shadows beneath them, giving him a look far older than even his thirty-three years. His gaze seemed to be shadowed with exhaustion that no amount of sleep could cure.

Yuu swallowed hard, their throat dry. They wanted to laugh, to make some cutting remark about personal space or his newly acquired dramatic flair. But those days were long gone. They were no one of consequence to him anymore, just another servant standing before a terrifying king. One who could crush them as easily as he had Griza.

Still, they couldn’t bring themselves to lie outright. They forced a weak, bitter laugh, the sound surprising even them. “Well…sir. I can’t say I ever shed any tears for Councilman Griza," they admitted, their voice quieter than they intended. "And I suppose I'm a little biased on the success of the restoration plan." They shrugged.

Leona’s chuckle was low and rich, sending a shiver down Yuu’s spine. His grip on their chin loosened, his hand falling away only to settle on their shoulder, still leaving char marks on their jaw. His claws lightly grazed the fabric of their clothing as he prodded them toward the throne.

"No one would," he said, his tone tinged with amusement. "The man was a perverted old bastard."

Yuu allowed themselves to be led further by their king, their steps measured as though they were walking a tightrope with him. The weight of his hand on their shoulder was impossible to ignore, a silent reminder of their wildly unbalanced power dynamic.

He stepped back, gesturing for Yuu to follow as he made his way to the throne. With a lazy grace, he dropped into the large seat, his arms draped languidly over one of the armrests as though the events of the day had taken no toll on him at all.

"C’mere." he said as casually as he might have back in school, motioning to the small space beside him. "Sit. I won't bite."

Yuu hesitated, their stomach twisting as their gaze flicked between him and the space left on the cushioned seat.

Leona’s gaze never left them, the weight of his command impossible to ignore. Slowly, they moved over, beaded sandals echoing in the large empty room. They started to lower themselves onto the left side of the throne, their hands gripping the armrest as if anchoring themselves to reality.

There was barely room for the both of them. Yuu sat down cautiously, making sure to leave at least a few inches between both their legs. They looked down at the colorful beaded bangles on their wrists and adjusted them as they settled in.

Leona leaned forward slightly, his smirk sharp. "Now," he said, his voice low, "No bullshitting. Tell me what you truly think of what I did."

Yuu’s breath caught, their pulse pounding in their throat. They met his gaze, their own expression carefully guarded, They inhaled deeply, steeling themselves. They knew the wrong answer could cost them, and so could the truth. It was a dangerous game, and they were far from certain they could win against him.

One thing was clear, there was no turning back now. He intended to play with them.

The answer was simple. He wanted them all to witness it. That’s why he did it.

"I think…" Yuu began, their voice measured, "You’re trying to prove something. To the council. To the kingdom. To yourself." The truth left their lips easier than they thought possible.

Leona’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his smirk didn’t falter. "And what, exactly, do you think I’m trying to prove?"

Yuu hesitated, the weight of his question pressing down on them. They chose their next words carefully, heart racing as they stared into his sharp green eyes.

"That you’re…strong enough to lead," they said finally. "That you deserve to be here."

For a moment, the air between them was charged with unspoken tension. Then, Leona leaned back, his smirk softening into something that almost resembled a genuine smile.

"Interesting theory," he said, his tone unreadable.

Yuu couldn’t tell if that was a good thing, or if they’d just sealed their fate. They took a steadying breath, relieved that Leona seemed somewhat satisfied with their response. His sharp gaze, however, told them the conversation was far from over.

“One more thing,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “There’s something else I want to know your thoughts about.” One of his brows quirked upward.

Yuu straightened slightly in their corner of the throne, their posture still cautious. “Your Majesty?”

“You seem restless, little mouse. Tell me…what else is on your mind?” His voice was low, almost a purr, but the demand was razor-edged. “No sugarcoating it either. No filter. Honest thoughts about everything.” He held a palm in the air between them, but it felt like a trap.

Leona’s eyes tracked Yuu’s every move as they absorbed his words, seeming to just notice how they sat slightly off-center, leaving space between them and his leg.

As if any physical distance could ever shield them from his intense scrutiny.

Yuu exhaled a breathy laugh, the sound strained. Their head spun from the abruptness of his request. In the time since their arrival at Leona’s behest, he had spoken to them so sparingly, and never this directly. It was almost as if they were strangers all over again.

“Everything?” they asked, stalling for time. “That’s a lot to cover.” They hesitated before adding, softly, “I mean-” They struggled on where to begin. “It’s… good to see you, Leona. I mean…Your Majesty.” The correction felt clumsy, a verbal stumble that reminded Yuu just how much had changed. The man sitting beside them was not the same person they’d once known. The thought tugged painfully at their chest.

“Not to be uh- rude but…you do look tired…” they ventured cautiously. “I heard the Sunrise City folk have been organizing more protests. Challenging the authority of the palace.” Their voice softened. “It can’t be easy to deal with.” They diverted his question slightly, bringing up recent events.

“I mean…” Yuu’s gaze drifted to the pile of sand that had once been Griza, then back to Leona. The question tumbled out before they could stop themselves. “H-how are you…feeling?”

Leona’s expression remained impassive as he studied them and their words. No doubt he noticed how their eyes lingered on him, searching for traces of the man they’d once known.

A man he himself knew no longer existed.

He let out an irritated huff, his eyes flicking briefly to the pile of sand too. “It’s becoming more of an annoyance than an actual threat,” he said, his tone dismissive. Then his gaze returned to Yuu, sharp and unyielding. “...You really want to know how I’m feeling?”

Yuu’s ears perked up at the question, hearing the doubt in his tone. It was the most candid he’d been since their arrival. His guardedness, the impenetrable walls he’d built around himself, seemed to crack, if only slightly.

“Oh.” Yuu blinked, startled. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course! You can… talk to me about anything.” Their words were soft, formal, yet tinged with sincerity as they nodded.

Leona scoffed bitterly, the sound carrying a weight of frustration. “...Ever since I became king, everything I had before is gone. No more days of slacking off, no more carefree moments of not giving a damn. Now, it’s just this...” He gestured lazily around the grand but empty throne room. “...the kingdom and its endless turmoil.” He paused, his expression unchanged, but his emerald eyes burned with emotions left unspoken.

“And now, I don’t even have the one thing I truly wanted.”

Yuu’s breath hitched as they watched him watching them from the corner of their vision, their carefully maintained mask slipping. “But…Your Majesty, isn’t this what you wanted?” They gestured to the ornate throne room too, its vastness a testament to his new status. “To be king?” They relaxed slightly as they spoke, a whisper of the old melancholic Leona slipping through in his words. For a fleeting moment, he felt less distant.

Leona’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile, wrinkles creasing around his darkened eyes. “What I wanted? What I really want…” He leaned closer, his voice low but searing. “...is to go back to when I was free to do whatever the hell I wanted. When I wasn’t stuck in this…damn throne room, surrounded by…traitors and sycophants. No one I can trust or talk to, to…be by my side.”

The honesty in his tone made Yuu’s chest tighten.

“You of all people should know that,” he said, his gaze piercing as a crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

They had wanted to keep their distance, but Leona's words landed heavy in the silence between them, the soft weight of his confession pulling their heartstrings. There was a rawness to his tone that unsettled them. As if their prior words had stirred something deep inside him, memories they had once shared, secrets only they both knew.

Leona’s broken smile felt like a ghost, haunting them both.

“I’m sorry…” Yuu looked down, their voice barely above a whisper. They wanted to…to empathize with him, but the memory of Griza’s death still hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the man he had become. “I do know, Leo-” The name slipped from their lips again before they could stop themselves. “I mean…Your Majesty.”

Leona’s scoff was softer this time, almost wistful.

"I guess...things were simpler back then, huh?" Yuu gave him a nostalgic smile as the coolness of the back of the throne soaked into their robes. The few inches between the two of them felt like a cavern now. “I…don’t envy you. Being king must be…” They struggled to find the word, a tightness in their own chest. “...lonely.” Their voice dropped.

Yuu hesitated before speaking again, the silence between them like still, uncharted waters. “...What can I do to help, Your Majesty?” They dared to ask again, creating a ripple they weren’t sure if they wanted to cause. As they met his gaze, they knew they could no longer hide the sadness they felt for him, for both of them, at how things turned ended up.

He breathed out.

“I never asked for this. I never really wanted this, ya know.” Leona said, his voice flat yet laced with an unmistakable pain.

“I know…” Yuu felt the full weight of his gaze settle on them, searching, pressing his grief onto them. His eyes flicked over their face, taking in every subtle shift of their expression, the sadness they thought they had hidden beneath a veil of stoic composure. He saw them. And they knew he saw them, mourning for what both their lives once were.

It was a silent accusation, a subtle reminder that the walls they had worked so hard to erect were not as impenetrable as they thought. And yet, there was an unsettling tenderness in his eyes that made Yuu’s breath catch, slipping like a dagger under their ribs.

“But, there’s nothing you can do, even if I wanted ya to…” he said, his voice quiet but firm, the words weighted with resignation. The tension in the air only thickened, a heavy silence; screams muffled with years of unspoken words and unhealed wounds.

Yuu’s eyes burned. They felt the sting of tears gathering, but they blinked and fought to keep them at bay, clawing at their bracelets on their wrist once more. They were unraveling at the edges, and for a fleeting moment, they feared the years of their trained professionalism would slip if they sat next to the miserable king any longer.

They couldn't break character.

"You're right, I’m sorry," Yuu confessed, wiping at their eyes with a hasty swipe of their arm. Their voice cracked as they spoke, an unintended tremor in the words. “I guess I should go, continue my work then, sir?” They stood, hoping to escape the suffocating intensity of this moment between them. “Your Majesty…” They bowed again, then stood there, waiting.

But, Leona didn’t dismiss them.

Before they could take another step, the king’s arm shot out like a whip, taking their wrist with surprising force. His touch was firm but desperate, pulling them back down onto the throne with him.

Yuu’s breath was taken from them, and before they could even process what was happening, they found themselves falling and plummeting...straight into his lap. The impact left them breathless, their heart pounding wildly against their ribs. Leona shifted his body, catching them easily and wrapping his arms tightly around their waist, pulling them flush to him, their back pressed to his chest. His chin came to rest on their shoulder, his breath warm and shaky against their skin. Without words, he buried his face in the crook of their neck, nose tip tracing their pulse point.

His smell was the same from all those years ago, cinnamon, citrus, star anise. Yuu could practically feel it, the tension and desperation pouring off him like an electric current. It was all they could do not to scream, for both of them.

“S-stay,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, crackling with emotion. “I don’t want cha to go.”

Yuu’s body went rigid, heart hammering; a frantic rhythm in their ears. The warmth of his body, the weight of his arms around them. It was all so achingly familiar, yet the desperation in his grip felt foreign. This wasn’t the Leona they had once known. His loneliness clung like a heavy shroud, smothering them both in the savanna heat. There was something darker, more urgent beneath it all now, more intense than anything they remembered, a weight, a suffocating pressure. His loneliness seeped into them, and it clung to their chest like an immovable boulder.

They couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t even move.

“Your M-majesty?” Their voice trembled, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through the facade they had carefully crafted. They froze, unsure how to react, caged in the snare of his arms like a helpless animal.

“I thought…” Yuu stuttered, still breathless, their voice barely a whisper. Their sweat caused their clothes to stick to multiple points on their body. “I thought there was nothing I could do t-to help?” Their body reacted to his touch against their neck, sending involuntary shivers down their spine. The tingles ran from their chest into their legs, and they couldn’t suppress the way their body burned under his invasive touch.

Leona’s grip tightened, pulling them even closer to him. He inhaled deeply near their ear, his breath shaky against the curve of their neck. They knew he could feel how stiff they were in his arms, the way their body quivered with a mixture of confusion, fear, and something else.

They knew he could feel their hesitance, but still, they stayed.

And that seemed to be enough for him.

“...You’re the only person in this fucking place that makes me feel like….myself,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost pleading. He whispered it as if it was the world’s most important secret. “That’s how you can help.”

Yuu’s chest ached. They wanted to empathize with him, comfort him, and understand. But, there was another weight in the room that couldn’t be ignored. A man’s remains still lay near, a grim reminder of what Leona had become in their years apart.

A king broken by his choices, a man who had spilled blood. Devoured his own remorse and morals long ago. And yet here he was, like a child clinging to their robes, desperate for the comfort of a bit of human touch.

Yuu closed their eyes, torn. Every fiber of their being screamed to pull away, to remember the man he had killed with their own eyes. But the ache in their chest grew, the heaviness of his loneliness, clawing at them. It was too much to resist indulging in. They knew it was wrong, toxic even but-

The desperation he felt for them was...intoxicating.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they whispered, head light, their voice barely a breath. They closed their eyes, bracing for whatever would come next, but still, they waited, unsure if they had just stepped into a trap they would never escape from.

Leona’s body stiffened at their passive response, and a soft, almost satisfied hum escaped him.

Oh? So, he hadn’t expected them to stay on his lap, to offer any kind of comfort, but here they were: allowing him to have what he apparently so desperately wanted.

Slowly, Leona tilted his head, the outline of his lips grazing the skin of Yuu’s neck with the gentlest of touches. His grip remained tight, as though trying to anchor them both to this fleeting moment, afraid it would slip away if he didn’t.

“Say my name,” he whispered, his voice low and full of something almost frantic.

Yuu gasped, their body relaxing despite themselves. It somewhat disgusted them that they wanted to give in to him. The tension in their limbs began to loosen, and they instinctively pressed themselves closer to him, their body betraying all those emotional boundaries they had worked so hard to build.

"Leona," they murmured, their voice barely audible, a trembling whisper, just for him.

"Leona..." They repeated it as if saying his name was the only thing that could ground them both in this chaotic and messy moment.

They sensed his body react at the sound of his name, reverberating in the space around them. His chest shuddered behind their back, his grip on Yuu’s waist tightening. His claws gripped their robes to almost discomfort, trapping them even closer to him.

As he exhaled shakily, it was as if a sense of relief washed over him. Yuu felt the tension in the rest of his body release beneath them. “Again,” he whispered, broad nose tracing the shell of their ear. His voice was croaky, almost pleading.

Yuu’s heart raced, the warmth of his thighs soaking into theirs. Their breath quickened, caught somewhere between fear and longing, sweat beading on their forehead. They didn’t know how they had ended up here, sitting in the lap of the damn king after he murdered someone before their eyes. Then, offering him comfort with nothing but his name, and the weight of their body.

But here they were, and there was no turning back.

“...Leona,” they whispered a third time, sealing their fate. The name escaped their lips like a prayer, a desperate plea for the boy they once knew, the boy they had once admired, to come back. To claw his way through the cruel king he had become.

#Been plotting this one for weeks. I went a lil off the rails.💚#twst #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar x yuu #twisted wonderland #twst leona #leona x reader #leona twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #bunnwich writes📝

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nanamiskentos · 7 months ago

Text

THAT'S SO TRUE — toji fushiguro

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (e) and let the show begin !

prologue. → you vowed to yourself that you would rock toji fushiguro's world as a new year's resolution. but it's christmas eve already, and the year is almost over. by hook or by crook, you're gonna that gorgeous, buff older man in your bed tonight.

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. toji fushiguro x afab!reader (reader uses she/her pronouns)

warnings. reader has never been chill a day in her life, áge gáp, dílf!toji, big díck toji (ofc), voyeurísm (sorta implied), másturbátion (f), jealous sèx, reader watches toji through binoculars, they match each other's freak, creámpíe, reader gets called 'slutty' and 'doll', orál (m and f. receiving)

word count. 9.4k! song inspiration. that's so true — gracie abrams

a/n. incredible art by sakimichan 🍃 i had so much fun writing this 😁 reader is an adult!! i imagined toji to be 35-ish, and reader to be 22...? its christmas day for me so i'm a tad late 😩

mp3. bet you're thinking 'she's so cool' kicking back on your couch, making eyes from across the room. wait! i think i've been there too!

if your friends knew what you were up to right now, they'd skip the intervention and go straight to dragging you to the nearest police precinct.

forget a lecture, they would slap a pair of handcuffs on you first, citing charges of being horny to the first degree.

officer! she just can't keep it in her pants!

but did you care? not in the slightest.

you adjust the blinds, nudging them just enough to angle your binoculars a little lower. focus sharpened, lens zoomed in, and there he was. the object of your totally healthy, not-at-all unhinged plan.

the target in question? toji fushiguro.

your next-door neighbour, who also happened to look like he'd walked straight out of a naked biker calendar. leather jacket snug over his broad shoulders, a frame built for sin, and pectorals that were so sculpted, you often dreamed of bouncing walnuts off them. just to see if the nuts would crack.

months ago, you had made a new years resolution to yourself that you wouldn't end this year without bagging the man at least once.

yet here you were on christmas eve, a few days shy of the year's end, still plotting and scheming like a bond villain on how you could charm the socks right off toji fushiguro.

but you feared that tonight was beginning to deliver a cold, harsh slap of reality.

your heart suddenly gives an undignifed lurch as toji swings off his motorcycle in one fluid motion. but your smirk — yes, you had been smirking and you wouldn't deny that, vanished the moment your binoculars caught sight of her.

right behind him, a woman dismounted with all the grace and mature confidence that you wished you could summon on a good day.

you twist the focus knob, an unfamiliar figure sharpening into clarity. tall, polished, probably closer to toji's age rather than yours, and way too pretty for your scheming, heinous comfort.

she's hooking her arm through his like they did this all the time, and her cherry-sweet smile beams up at him like he'd hung the damn christmas lights himself.

and then, then! she leans in to press a kiss to his cheek, casual as a snowflake fluttering onto the concrete below.

your chest tightens oddly, though whether it was from jealousy or sheer mortification, you couldn't tell. and you didn't want to tell.

toji fushiguro, for his part, didn't seem fazed, at least, not outwardly. he turns his shaggy head away, smiling faintly with that gruff and polite expression he sometimes wore when someone cornered him into small talk.

not that it mattered. you couldn't stop the frown that tugged at your lips, watching the pair disappear out of view, the motorcycle keys still dangling from his thick fingers.

you sigh, setting the binoculars down with a little more force than necessary. tonight was supposed to be your night, the grand finale where you capped the year off with a big win in the shape of this six-foot-two man, with green eyes that could strike you dumb.

and you had even planned ahead! you'd been certain that there wouldn't be any pesky interruptions, particularly of the pint-sized variety.

not that you had anything against megumi fushiguro, he was a good kid — if a little unnerving with that brooding energy he carried around like a hefty backpack.

but still, you'd never really spoken to him much. call it morals or basic decency, but dragging a clueless kid into your schemes just felt a little wrong.

so when you had overheard toji casually mentioning that megumi was out for a sleepover with some friend, something about how nice it would be to have a night for himself, you had taken that as a sign from the universe. a green light.

fate herself waving you through the doors to make your move.

except now, traitorous fate had also thrown you a curveball in the form of the older, mystery woman who had been clinging to toji's back on the motorcyle. all expensive burgundy fur, and a darling blowout that was way out of a college student's pay cheque.

still, you're not the kind of woman who folds at the first sign of trouble. no, you think, squaring your shoulders. who would you be if you gave up now? perseverance is the backbone of triumph, or something like that.

the walls of this apartment are criminally thin, and you trust that the muffled thuds coming from next door are none other than toji fushiguro leading his...date up the stairs and down the hallway. the metallic jingle of keys confirms it, a sound that sends a pang of irritation prickling beneath your skin.

your gaze shifts to your desk, to the corkboard cluttered up with polaroids of your friends, random university flyers, and pinned up lecture schedules that you never follow. you press three fingers to your lips, in a respectful and solemn kiss, before tapping your photograph of aaron hotchner, in a promise for the near future.

"i won't give up, hotch," you murmur, the solemn, printed face of thomas gibson crossing his arms — gazing back at you, a beacon of motivational determination.

and with that, you grab a notepad and the first pen you can find, even though it's half-dried and it can barely write. you flip the pages open, and begin dotting down your back-up plan on how to score toji fushiguro tonight.

you're pretty sure it's been an hour since you started furiously scribbling on paper. five dried-out pens and a mountain of crumpled drafts later, each one titled with variations of how to get toji fushiguro in my bed, your notepad is starting to look like a pathetic manifesto.

you sip idly at your grape soda, the fizzy sweetness staining your tongue a violent purple. and listen, to be clear, you're absolutely a feminist. truly. you're not the type to believe in pitting women against each other. that's messy, unsophisticated, and frankly it's far beneath you.

but sadly, here's the other thing. desperate times call for desperate measures. and as much as you hate to admit it, toji fushiguro, your brooding and hulking neighbour with shoulders that eclipse the sun, has your resolve teetering right on the edge. the wanting and lusty human spirit is unbreakable, and the idea of losing is as appealing as licking sandpaper.

the sound of a low thud breaks through your plotting, as you drop the end of the pen out of your mouth. your ears perk up at the faint creak of a door opening. you recognise the gruff voice, muffled through the thin walls.

"damn heater's out again. 'm just gonna go check the switch downstairs."

uh-huh. that's what you thought. this was just act one of the stage play.

see, about forty five minutes ago, inspiration had struck. you'd realised you needed to get toji out of his apartment, and given his bear-like simplicity: eat, sleep, grumble, repeat, it wasn't exactly that easy.

but every man needed his rest, and no man could rest on christmas eve when the snow was sticking to the window pane from the cold.

so, you had snuck downstairs and flipped the heater's breaker to his apartment off, leaving the rest blissfully untouched. setting an ideal trap for the vast man.

you crack your door open, just enough to watch him lumber off towards the left staircase.

it's one of two routes down to the basement, and the fastest, if you hadn't intercepted fate. about twenty minutes into your plan, you had grabbed a handful of out of order signs (printed with comic sans, the true villain of typography) and plastered them halfway down the left flight of stairs.

you dart towards the right staircase, your knee-high socks skimming the concrete steps in a frantic descent. as you reach the halfway point, you hear the telltale grunt of a frustrated toji.

"damn management can't even warn people about closures," he's muttering to himself, heavy footsteps falling in line behind yours.

right on cue. by the time he reaches the basement, there you are, innocently peering at the big, clunky switchboard. like it wasn't you who had just broken into it to render toji's apartment a freezing chill.

your sweater's been strategically tugged off one shoulder, and you're pretending the icy air isn't slicing at your bare legs, left exposed by the shortest pair of shorts you own.

"what brings ya down here?" toji grunts, his voice low and rough like gravel underfoot.

you count it as a small victory when his eyes sweep over you, slow and deliberate, before the older man coughs and shifts his focus back to the switchboard. you sidle closer under the guise of curiosity, so close that the fabric of your sweater brushes his arm. the steel biceps flexing under the tight, black fabric of his tee.

"i don't know," you sigh, feigning innocence with a touch of melancholia, "it jus' got so cold of all a sudden." you cross your arms over your chest, pretending to shiver just enough to catch his attention without looking concerningly ill.

toji glances down at you briefly, his brow furrowing, "mhm. yeah," he mutters, before turning back to the labyrinth of switches, "can't believe how these clowns the place."

you watch as the man leans in, studying the panel like it's some kind of ancient artefact. his expression is set in that serious, furrowed way men always get when faced with the unfamiliar terrain of household maintenance.

cute. almost.

you, of course, had done your homework. a quick google search of the model number earlier had led you to the manual, and you already knew it was the purple switch on the top right. but why rush, eh? if toji fushiguro wanted to play handyman, who were you to deprive him? especially when you needed a little more time to set the mood, to give him some ideas.

every time his fingers hovered closer to the correct switch, you leaned in, cutting him off with casual chatter. enough to have the man's eyes drop over you once more, before flicking away before he could break the bounds of propriety.

"so, are you doing anything tonight?"

"what?" his gruff tone reverberates through the dim basement, bouncing off the concrete walls.

you flutter your lashes at him, meeting his sharp, verdant gaze, "i mean, it's christmas eve. got any fun plans?"

he straightens slightly, his hand falling from the panel as he looks right at you, "nah. just stayin' in." but toji tilts his head and throws the question back at you, "why aren't you?"

"why aren't i, what?" you tilt your head to mirror the man, feigning confusion, "staying inside? i was, but then i got cold. y'know, busted heater and all."

toji exhales through his nose, and you watch mesmerised as the scar twitches over his lip, "no, doll. i mean, doing something fun. you're young. got your whole life ahead of you to be old and boring."

the faintest flicker of a genuine smile tugs at the corner of your glossy lips. if only he knew. you clear your throat, "i guess," and you shrug, the movement subtle, but just enough to let your sweater slip a little further off your shoulder, "it's just not my...taste."

your gaze trails over him, deliberate but not obvious enough to tip the scales out of your hand. you hope that you're not wide-eyed taking in how his broad shoulders ripple, almost tense?

"ah." toji fushiguro, everybody. a man of great wit, and even greater vocabulary.

he's tapping a knuckle against the switchboard, frowning at the rows of colourful levers like they've personally insulted him. you take the moment to edge a little closer, peering up at him with a deliberate and doe-eyed expression.

"need help?" you ask, voice sweet enough to break through teeth.

toji snorts, "you? help me with this?" he glances at you sideways, one thin brow quirking up, "i've got this, doll," but he seems to sober up, remembering that he does not have this, "unless you even know what this thing does?"

"of course i do," you shrug, feigning nonchalance, "i'm pretty good at flicking the right switch."

and what a sweet, untainted victory when toji's movements still. he doesn't tear his gaze away from the switchboard, but his hands pause and you see his lips twitch, "uh-huh."

"you should probably head back upstairs," he says gruffly, his tone almost concerned, "basement's freezin' and you're gonna catch a cold in, uh," and toji's gesturing vaguely at your thin ensemble, clearly trying to be polite.

"i know, but i was just comfortable in this," you run your hands, pretending to tug at the hem of your shorts. ignoring how the goosebumps are practically beating your ass right now, and you're about an inch of a temperature drop away from hypothermia.

toji fushiguro mutters something under his breath, something about attitude and young people these days, but he doesn't move away when you sidle back closer to him again, the faint brush of your arm against his making the great man stiffen up again.

"so, no christmas eve plans at all?" you press again, cocking your head, "not even a little festive cheer? eggnog?"

"festive cheer?" toji scoffs, finally pulling the purple switch as the low hum of the heater continues to chug away. dusting his hands off like he's just solved a national crisis, like you couldn't have solved that ten minutes ago, "i'm not big on christmas."

"that's tragic," you sigh, "and i was gonna ask you to stand with me under the mistletoe." your tone is teasing, light enough to deflect any serious questions but you let your lips form a soft pout. just enough to teeter on the edge of innocence. the faint, almost-whine in your tone is carefully calibrated: harmless on the surface but laced with the kind of undercurrent that can plant ideas in a man's head.

"ya' got jokes tonight," toji's gaze lingers, a little longer than necessary. you don't miss the way his shoulders draw tighter together. how his jaw ticks, but the real prize for you is when his hand slides up to rub the back of his neck, fingers kneading at the thick muscle, like he's trying to shake something loose.

the corner of your mouth twitches again, oh. you've got him now.

"imagine going through life, so lonely on christmas. that's gotta do something to a person." you're so not seeing the pearly gates, but you've come to terms with that.

"yeah? like what?" toji huffs.

you tap a finger against your chin, pretending to think, "well. for starters, it probably makes you very grumpy."

"tch, 'm not grumpy," toji rasps, but his tone says otherwise, as he runs a hand through sleek strands of dark hair, "yer' something else, you know that?"

"i've been told."

tojo shakes his head again, and you don't miss the faint smile tugging at the corner of his thin mouth, "alright, kid. time to head back up before you freeze to death down here."

time's up on this charade. you puff out a breath, your coy bravado dimming just a little bit, "fine, fine. but i'm not a kid, y'know."

toji's green eyes flick to yours, like chips of sea-glass as he holds your gaze, before turning back towards the stairs, "yeah. i know."

you follow him up in silence, the soft patter of your socks suddenly too cold on the pavement. at the top of the steps, toji pauses, glancing back at you with an unreadable expression, "get some rest. and make sure no-one's messin' with the switches."

"why would they do that?" you say, a touch too quickly.

"no reason," toji says, just as abruptly, stepping back as though putting physical distance between you two would help, "but it's all fixed now. go on, back to your apartment."

you blink, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift, "what? no thanks for keeping you company."

"thanks," toji fushiguro says flatly, but his gaze isn't unkind.

"wow. don't get too sentimental on me now."

"goodnight," the man deadpans, swinging your door open for you, just for good measure. before turning on his heel, and heading for his own room.

back to the drawing board.

toji fushiguro is convinced that the universe has it out for him. some karmic retribution is surely circling overhead, just waiting to strike. because really, what other explanation is there for his constant predicaments?

his life had been fine, a little lonely, sure, but manageable. until you moved in next door, perhaps sometime last year. sweet, maddening, entirely too pretty for your own good.

what the hell was toji supposed to do with that?

he's still rubbing the back of his neck, pushing open the door to his apartment. his date, right, was still perched on the old couch, scrolling through her phone. she's looking up at him when he entered, arching a brow.

"hey, you were gone for a while," she lightly comments, tucking her phone away.

"yeah, uh, sorry 'bout that," he mutters, crossing to the kitchen, "this place has a habit of breaking down on me."

shui had set him up with this woman, insisting that toji needed to crawl out of his self-imposed hermit hole and start living a little.

"you're not getting any younger, fushiguro," shui had snarked, as if toji didn't already feel every year weighing on him. so, fine. he'd agreed, figuring one dinner with a woman way out of his tax bracket wouldn't kill him.

and to be fair, the date had been...fine. the woman was attractive, sharp-witted, and she didn't pester him with inane questions. the kind of woman that most people would be thrilled to spend an evening with. but toji just couldn't shake the strange emptiness that had settled in his chest.

still, he had told himself to quit overthinking. maybe he was just out of practice. or maybe shui oddly had a point, and he needed to stop letting life pass him by. so, he'd invited her back to his place, hoping another glass of wine and small talk would lead one things into another.

what he hadn't counted on was running into you in the basement. how your light voice would replay in his head, that teasing lilt burrowing under his thick skin and leaving him restless.

tojo shakes his head, reaching for a couple of glasses and the half-decent bottle of wine that he kept stashed away from megumi's prying hands. kid was at that age where he was too damn curious for his own good about everything. his brain, however, was still stuck in the basement, circling around you.

what the hell had you been doing there anyway? sidling up to him all close, sickeningly sweet perfume or some shit that made his jaw clench. batting long lashes at him, and teasing him about mistletoe kisses.

civility. decency. that was the bare minimum that he could give you, wasn't it?

"you've got quite the collection of, uh, things up there," his date's voice pulls him back, gesturing to the open cabinet with a polite smile. toji glances at colourful boxes of cereal, and the little plastic bowls with cartoon animals splashed all over them. megumi's favourites.

"yeah," he says gruffly, pouring the wine, "got a kid. just the one."

she nods, taking the glass he hands her, "that's sweet. how old?"

"six. he's...not here tonight."

before his date can reply, catch the insinuation that he's thrown out, another sound filters through the paper-thin walls. a giggle, a sweet laugh followed by a voice he knows all too well.

"i know, right! he was like, totally into me!"

toji freezes, the wine bottle hovering mid-pour over his second glass. he sets the bottle down with a little more force than necessary, pretending not to notice the way his date glanced toward the wall, clearly having heard you too. fantastic. as if the universe hadn't done enough to torment him today.

his teeth ground together as your voice floated through again, a singsong lilt that made his chest thump, and irritation flare all at once. what were you even talking about? who the hell was 'totally' into you?

"uh-huh," you had been laughing, your voice carrying through the wall, "and then, he asked me out!"

toji's grip tightens on his glass, wondering who on earth managed to pull you into a date. wait, why did he even care?

his date seems oblivious to the internal war raging inside of him, taking a sip of her wine and smiling, "so, what's your son's name?"

"megumi," he mutters, absently, eyes flicking through the wall like he could see through it if he squinted hard enough. ugh, what an awful thing to think. what was wrong with him? acting like freak, not able to mind his own business.

his date's laugh is soft and polite, "that's cute."

cute, yeah.

you thought it was cute too, didn't you? he remembered the way your eyes lit up when megumi toddled after you once in the hallway, clutching one of his ridiculous animal-print bowls.

"oh, what did i say?" your voice drifts again through the walls, following by a light laugh, "look, he was cute and all, but he just wasn't my type."

toji rubs a hand down his face, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his noise. you're just his neighbour. you're entitled to have your fun, to live your own life. that doesn't mean he has to like hearing about it.

meanwhile, his date sits stiffly on the couch, politely pretending your voice isn't bleeding through the walls like a radio she can't turn off. she's doing a commendable job of feigning disinterest, but toji knows it's killing what little momentum the evening had.

he clears his throat, trying to salvage things, "so, uh, got any plans for tomorrow? something fun for christmas?" great, now he's stealing lines from you.

her smile tightens, polite but clearly wavering, "just lunch with my family. my sister's bringing her kids over."

toji nods, grasping at conversational straws, "that's nice. i've got, uh, a brother. and an annoying little cousin."

"right," and she's glancing up at the clock, her patience thinning faster than her smile.

"oh, come on," your voice pipes up again, clearer this time, "you know my type's never been those kinds of guys. i like the big, rough ones." there's a pause, and then you laugh, the sound both coy and infuriatingly knowing, "yeah, like a bit older. all muscles."

toji freezes, trying to pretend like his insides aren't doing the tango. his date, on the other hand, has clearly reached her limit. her lips purse into a tight smile as she stands, smoothing her dress, "look, you've been nice and all," she says, voice clipped, clearly cutting off the chances of a second date, "but i really should get going."

toji fushiguro doesn't argue. doesn't even try to stop her. just watches as her expensive-ass coat swings off his couch, her heels clicking toward the door and her figure vanishing down the hallway.

he slouches back on the couch, arms sprawled wide, feigning a calm that he doesn't definitely feel. in truth, he's seconds away from keeling over, his chest tight and his pulse betrays him.

"huh?" your voice filters through the paper-thin walls, questioning and laced with mirth. the sound sends a shiver down his spine, and down somewhere else, "oh, my neighbour? toji, yep, that's him!"

his head jerks up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, eyes boring into the wall like he can will it to dissolve. tch, he's being such a dog. his ears are straining, sharp and unreasonably hopeful.

"yeah, he's so perfectly my type. tsk! yes, of course, i wish he'd just...yeah. anyway. but," you sigh, a dramatic exhale, "but i just don' think he's into me."

toji freezes, as heat floods his face, creeping down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. there's a traitorous clench in his groin as his stomach flips in a way that's both exhilarating and completely unwelcome.

the truth — shameful and complicated as it is — is that he is very much into you. has been for months. and it's getting worse.

every time you lean into him with those wide, sparkling eyes, every time you tease him with some playful jab or brush your fingers against his arm like it’s nothing, it carves a little deeper into his self-control. you're sweet, bright, always full of questions and comments that manage to sound innocent and maddeningly suggestive all at once.

but there's a prickling shame that comes with it, too, a harsh voice in the back of his head that tells him to grow the hell up. he's a grown man, for crying out loud.

a grown man with a kid who needs him, who already has enough on his plate without the complication of a pretty little neighbour who could turn his world upside down without even trying.

what could he offer you, anyway? you, who barrels down the hall in the mornings with an oversized bag bouncing against your hip, always late for something important, always in motion.

your life is big and full and bursting with possibilities. his, by comparison, feels...worn. quiet. comfortable in a way that makes him feel ancient when he looks at you.

still, it doesn't stop toji from looking. or from thinking things he shouldn't, like how your laughter lights up even the dullest days. or sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, pulling his hard cock out to tug on it, imagining your doe-eyes peering up at him.

toji rubs a hand over his face, groaning quietly into the crook of his elbow. what the fuck is he supposed to do with this?

you're starting to lose precious steam. for all your big talk about not giving up and winning toji over, the spark of confidence that got you this far is starting to sputter out. the lines that you'd carefully scribbled in blue ballpoint ink, a full script of fake laughter and coy quips begins to feel...a little tragic.

half an hour of pacing your apartment and pretending to be on the phone has left you feeling deflated, and painfully self-aware. your voice has grown too practiced, too rehearsed and you're starting to wonder if you even sound convincing anymore. and for all you know, toji fushiguro didn't even hear one word of it.

he's probably in there, sprawled on his couch, having a great time with his date. maybe laughing, maybe pouring wine, or maybe he's taken her to bed. fuck, your stomach lurches as your insides flip for no good, kind reason.

you glance at the cooling grape soda on your nightstand, still fizzing lazily in its can, and suddenly feeling quite awful. disgusted with yourself for the plotting, the dramatics, and the fact that it hasn't paid off in the slightest.

with a sigh that's more frustrated and resigned, you flop back onto your bed, ignoring the slight bounce of the mattress as you land. your apartment suddenly feels too hot, the air sticky and stifling.

you kick off the blanket that's bunched around your ankles, and you lie sprawled on top of the quilt. head tilted back against the pillows as you take in the dull hum of the light fixture and the occasional creak of the pipes.

with a despondent sigh, you find yourself half-heartedly parting your legs — maybe to entertain some false fantasy instead. you could have gone out, maybe really lived a little, just as toji had suggested.

you roll down the waistband of your shorts, pulling at the soft, elastic band. just tugging them down enough so you can trail your hands over the flesh of your thighs. yeah, you were that morose right now.

perhaps, you should have accepted the invites to all those christmas parties. you could have dolled up a little, grabbed a sweet drink or two on the house, fallen into the strong arms of a stranger?

you trail your hands over thin, soft skin. nails gently grazing over your mound, as you quickly run your middle finger through your slit, already dewy and moist. you muffle a small whine, because for all your showmanship earlier, you weren't above decency. and these walls were truly that thin.

but it's hard to not buck your hips up into your own touch, working your puffy cunt open with steady fingers. one finger, and then a second, fluttering at a gentle pace. how telling that the mysterious stranger in your fantasies is suddenly far older, with hazy green eyes and charcoal hair falling over his face.

you substitute the slap of your fingers for his, pretending its a rough thumb that pulls at your clit, gently pushing the throbbing hood up to run misshapen circles over the bundle of nerves.

"hah," you try to gnaw at your lower lip, keeping your mouth shut, as you're desparate for the creak of your bed frame to not carry over into the apartment next door, "t-toji, please."

there's a faint thud from next door, like someone has just hit their head. but you can hardly register it in your own mind. shuffling whines leaving your lips, as you use your fingers to stretch out your slick, sodden walls. getting faster, and faster with each piston-like gesture to curl the pads of your fingers up. searching, keening around for that rough spot that makes you squeal.

your eyes are fluttering shut, lashes falling against your cheek as your jaw tightens, heartbeat beginning to race as you heave for air, back arching up as you use your other hand to furiously flick over your clit, building up a steady ache in your wrist that you ignore, "ah, ah, toji, r-right there, fuck, 'm close."

each press of your finger against the walls of your entrance results in a large squelch echoing through your ears, getting closer and closer to that devastating peak, all the while as hallucination-toji snickers down at you and —

"hey!"

and just like that, your long-awaited orgasm, your beautiful climax, well. she disappears with nary a goodbye. your eyes snap open, heart hammering as you blink up at the dull ceiling. your hand is yanked away from your cunt, the cool air suddenly hitting the slick that's coating your fingers. your mind stutters, scrambling for clarity as an all-too-familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

"hey! c'mon, doll. don't have all day."

toji. toji fushiguro. oh, shit.

the panic rises quickly, what are your options? dive out the window and hope that you land on your feet? or fake an illness so convincing that you convince him that's contagious so he leaves? you consider it for a moment, but something else takes over. far more brave, or just reckless and lust-addled. you pull yourself upright, tugging your shorts back up. you shift your sheets, making sure that the dark, translucent patch is covered.

you pad towards the door with the air of a man marked for execution. when you swing it open, you're met with a red-faced toji. is he flushed?

you drop any cute pretense, and instead, lock your petulant gaze on his chest, straight up with the no eye-contact rule. it gives you a real, shameless good look at those heavenly sculpted pecs.

"what do you want?" you ask, voice as flat as you can possibly manage. but you're keenly aware of that mirror-gloss still coating your hands, and you wonder if its too obvious to scrunch your fingers in your sweatshirt. gross, someone get you out of here. the misery of your own making.

toji stands there, entirely dumbounded, and you notice the flush creeping up the peachy tan of his neck, a shade deeper than usual, "what do i want? what do you want?" he says, his voice rock-rasp.

you swallow thickly, ignoring the addled scent of leather, musk and something far more faintly addictive, "i have no idea what you mean."

toji huffs, obviously amused, before mimicking your voice with exaggerated sweetness, "oh, toji, please. right there, toji." he's mocking you, and your skin burns with the recent memory of that exact tone.

you consider for a split second if you can just hand him your lease tomorrow morning and call it quits. but then, toji continues, "y'know these walls are thin, right?"

you cross your arms, trying to steady yourself, ignoring how your poor cunt clenches with the faint memory of her ruined orgasm, "really? i had no idea."

toji mirrors your actions, his arms folding, but the effect only pushes his pecs up, and you try not to get distracted. but it's hard, very hard, "don't get all smart with me now. been hearing you giggle all evenin' and being all slutty."

"thought you had a date," you mutter, the act of playing pretend has long since passed and you're too far gone now to pretend. you scowl up at toji, meeting his gaze head-on, feeling your heart race as his eyes narrow and his pink lips part slightly. you can almost feel the urgent heat of his gaze dragging over your hand, your damp fingertips.

"how'd you know about my date? suddenly real concerned for me?" toji tilts his head, voice laced with infuriating amusement, and you fight the urge to lash out, to throw yourself into him and kiss him fuckin' stupid. instead, you dig in your heels, staying put.

"no, i'm not concerned," you stutter, floundering for a reason, "i'm just, well —"

"who asked you out?" toji cuts through your flickering thoughts, an undercurrent of something sharper in his tone.

"huh?"

"who was it? the one who isn't your type?" toji fushiguro says this all so casually, making your stomach flip. so he had been listening, he heard every word of you flouncing around your room.

you swallow hard, ignoring the sudden fluttering in your chest, "why? you jealous?" the words spill out before you can stop them, you raise an eyebrow, feeling a small victory in the way his priggish expression falters just slightly, "just go back to your date, fushiguro."

"gettin' real bold now," he murmurs, and you realise just how close the two of you are. how you can feel his body heart radiating off him. the tension between you is suffocating to say the last, and you can't decide if you want him to step back or push closer. he doesn't give you a chance to answer.

"thanks to your pretty antics, she sent herself packin', and now i'm all on my lonesome."

"how sad for you," and you suddenly curl your lip, "get a vibrator."

toji's maw drops open for a split second, before he shakes his head, "you first. don't know how you were doing all that without one," and he nods to your hand, "and because i wasn't hearin' much else."

something bold and red-hot comes over you, egged on by the damp sticking to your thighs, "want a visual demonstration?"

you barely have time to form a coherent thought before toji moves, a low growl rumbling in his barrel-like chest as he surges forward. his hands, large and calloused and warm, cup your face with surprising gentleness, though the intensity in his gaze leaves no room for doubt. then, his lips crash against yours, rough and unrelenting. the faint scrape of the scar cutting across his mouth sending a shiver through you.

it's not careful, it's testing and tasting. as if he's waiting for you to push him away. but oh, you're not going anywhere. not when his kiss is setting your nerves alight, and sending your heart into a dizzying free fall. merry christmas to you, indeed.

you respond in kind, just as desperate, your hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders. the solid, hefty weight of toji beneath your fingers grounds you, even as the world tilts on its axis.

"ohh, look at you," toji all but purrs, pawing his hands over your back, your waist, settling over your hips as he pushes you further into your apartment. a strong arm stretching out to slam the door closed, tugging you further in. it seems he's too needy to even reach the bed, and you whine as you're shoved with your back to the wall. his hand coming up to make sure you don't quite slam in with too much force.

toji's lips are practically meshed to your own, and he's already pulling at the waistband of your shorts again. just as you were doing earlier, and you shudder, feeling thick fingers run along your hips.

"s-shit," toji gasps, "if ya' don't want me to —"

you groan, "no, n-no. want you," your voice quivers suddenly as warm fingers press into your soaked cunt. finding home right among your weeping slit. you don't even see where your shorts have been thrown, instead focusing on toji's hazy eyes flickering when they see that you've been wearing nothing underneath. all damn evening.

you don't think you've ever seen the man so dishevelled, heaving for air, as he tries to come to terms with all this, "so when you were in that basement, jus' tryna tease me? is that what you wanted?"

you can't help but laugh, but it's quickly cut off when toji's pressing a hot kiss to the very tip of your clit, it's so feather light and oddly gentle for the gruff man, and it has you keening over.

"that's it, gon' have you all in my mouth. gonna drink ya' up, it's what you wanted, right?" he uses two fingers to press right up against your entrance, parting your oozing folds so he can narrow his eyes at how ready you are for him, "gonna put this all in a cup, and drink it."

"t-toji!" you whine out, feeling your head go all light, and weightless, watching toji play with your core. seeing the older man gape at how you're soaking divots into his fingers, seeing emerald eyes darken with a carnal need to taste you. right now.

"stay still, doll. yeah, just for a sec," toji's hands tighten around your thighs, smacking a fat glob of spit over your trembling core, letting his index finger run the fluid up and down your pussy, a ragged laugh running raw from his smart mouth, "had no idea you were like this, been burying your pretty fingers in your cunt for me before, right?"

you need to get a hit of your own in, before toji fushiguro turns your mind to mush, "you been fisting around your cock for me, then too? bet it super hard when — fuck!"

your words are cut off by the flat pads of his fingertips coming down to deliver a jolt to your throbbing clit, slapping wet arousal around as toji almost glares up at you, but it's softened by lazy fondness.

"watch ya' mouth, doll. 'm wanting to go easy on you tonight."

he's delving straight into your cunt, like a man starved and searching for salvation between your thighs. you feel your mind go blank, that ruined orgasm of the past hour practically gaining a life of her own and cheering once more, coming back to you in embarrassing, full force as it barely takes a few, quick munches of toji's tongue around your sweet pussy.

that's all you need before you're quickly seeing flashing stars, and doing your best to hide the tremble in your thighs. but toji's having none of that.

his laugh is low, mocking and so ruined, "tchh, i really did interrupt ya' didn't i? must have been so close on that bed," but he's not stopping, practically speaking into your stimulated cunt, punctuating his words with buttery kisses, "must have caught ya' on the very edge for her to so ready for me."

"shut u-up."

"your wish? my command," toji snickers, letting your slick, running juices gather over his chin, "and you taste so good. she's a sweet thing, right," and you realise that he's not talking about you, but rather, about your weeping, glossy cunt that's shoved against his sharp nose. you've got the man practically pussydrunk already, and he's hardly gotten a good feel for it.

his hand comes to rest on your bare thigh, tapping it, "now 'm gonna need you to move that, yeah, that's right," you're slotting it over his broad shoulders, and it pulls him closer. and at this point, you don't even care for how you should be embarrassed, should be feeling some shame at having this rugged, older man salivating into your cunt. but there's a shocking glee instead, a quiet victory that's bubbling in your abdomen and already demanding an encore.

his tongue darts out again, this time he's prodding the muscle at your entrance, feeling for that slight resistance made weaker by your fingers earlier, all on your own. the very tip of his tongue in you has you whining again, slapping a hand over your lolling mouth.

"move that hand," toji grunts, punctuating each word with a flick to your clit.

"i c-can't," you gasp, hands finding a home in his clingy, dark strands, "people are gonna hear-ahhh," he's practically mouthing himself onto your pussy, slick strands separating from his lips each time he pulled away for air. the stimulation is making you so much more sensitive, tears springing to the corners of your eyes as the pleasure begins to sting so deliciously.

you pull fingers through ink-black hair, delicate threads that are soft to the touch and feather-light, "h-here, toji," you curl your fingers to angle him perfectly just so, and the burly man is letting you use him, letting you drag his mouth over your slippery folds. just so you can get him to flick his tongue over that spot that makes you cry out so perfectly.

and toji thinks he's never seen a greater sight. he feels a dizzy, heaving tightness in his jeans, that ache building in his groin like he's about to bust his load just from having you fall apart so prettily on his tongue. he ups the pace, making sure to nimbly etch patterns over your heated, swollen clit. he had you right where he wanted you, needed you, and he'd be damned before he'd left you high and dry.

"y'know, 'm thinking about to see this pretty pussy cum again," and toji sounds so proud, taking gratified in the fact that after only one taste, he's already attuned to the signs of your climax. the way your eyes roll back in your head, tears pricking at your eyes in a way that makes his cock ache even harder.

you're unabashed now, rolling your hips into him at a messy pace. letting spikes of white-hot and red-searing pleasure curl up in your abdomen, ready to burst. the entirety of his lower chin is coated in sweet slick, glistening his rough scar, with a clear drop just beading at his lip.

"i-i think 'm gonna, toji, toji - feels s-so —"

toji's mocking you, pitching his raspy voice up again to capture your tone, "oh yeah? 'm gonna, what? what are ya' gonna do? gonna cum, because that's what i'm here for, doll."

he's making a mess now, switching between a cool, short puff of air at your throbbing clit, and letting his tongue push into your gummy walls, unending pleasure until —

"aaand, cum. now, doll."

it bursts within you, swiftly and briskly. so intense that the edges of your visions become clouded with dark spots, a hazy vignette of sheer pleasure from toji's mouth running all over the filthy mess you've created. the gushing climax that must be soaking the scuffed, dark floorboards beneath toji's bent knees.

you don't even realise that you're still babbling his name, entirely lost in the daze of your second orgasm of the night. little cries of toji, like a prayer over and over, mantras that are making toji grin with his gleaming lips underneath you. all as he wraps his arms around your thighs, lifting you with brute strength. all the while not separating himself from your oversensitive cunt, petting soft kisses over your inner thighs, "gorgeous thing, aren'tcha? think ya' give me another one?"

you groggily lift your head as he sets you down on the bed, caging you beneath his considerable frame, "why? don't wanna, uh, stuff my stocking tonight?"

toji's green eyes flicker with mirth, amusement, only punctuated by him rolling them back in faux-disgust, "still runnin' that clever mouth, hah."

you squirm as he pushes his rough hands under your sweatshirt, letting both hands cup your breasts, pinching and twirling fingertips over your nipples, "are you a, mmph, a candy cane, toji?"

he doesn't break his concentration from where he's peeling your top off, "what nasty shit are ya' gonna say now?"

you giggle as he brushes past a particularly ticklish spot, "because i think you're s-sweet, and i wanna suck you."

"fuck."

in the blink of an eye, he's got you perched over on your knees, just as he hovers you. waistband pulled down enough to reveal black boxers, close enough that you could stick your chin out and press a soft kiss to the darkened patch of pre-cum that must be driving toji crazy.

and well, it's big. like it's jingle bells, jingle balls type of big. you drag your eyes from soft, curled black hair at the base of his groin and down an angry, thick red shaft that makes you clench your thighs.

"wan' me to slide over your chimney?"

that gifts you a barked, punched laugh out of the man — toji's got a large hand wrapped around his cock, "c'mon, doll. put that smart mouth to good use then," inching it closer to your lips in silent permission. you part your lips, anticipating the savoury pre that coats your tongue, the translucent fluid dripping from your mouth already.

he's thumbing down on your lower lip, easing the red mushroom tip into your waiting, eager mouth, "hah, think ya' were meant to take me. how's...how's this slutty mouth so perfect?" toji sounds ruined, all rock-salt rasp and his pink lips fall open, and a flush is painted over his tan skin.

you've never been one to give up, ready to angle your head lower, eager to take as much of him as possible into your mouth. but it's a hard stretch, as crystalline tears cling to your lashes, from the tight wrap of the back of your mouth around his throbbing cock.

toji's got his hand wrapped in your hair now, and you can tell that he's trying to be gentle with the strands as he angles your head lower, purring as you take him so well, "f-fuck, a perfect tease, yeah? fuckin' amazing," and you know he's telling the truth, for his cock is practically twitching with a life of its own in your mouth.

you've got this man hazy and drunk, just from sucking you off, and the realisation makes you whine all over again. reaching a hand down in between your thighs to rock up against your clit, all at the same steady pace.

and you know that toji is close, for those sculpted thighs of pure muscle tremble now, the powerful cords quivering as he bucks his hips, fucking your mouth in long, steady strokes. you also realise that you want him to cum, just like this, to have thick white fall from your lips to really seal and sweeten the deal.

but suddenly, you're left popping your lips shut, as toji groans, genuinely groans and shudders, pulling himself out of your mouth with a wet slop!

"don' give me that look, doll," toji chuckles, his chest heaving underneath the sculpted outline of his dark shirt, "can stuff ya' mouth with my cock later, if that's what you want. but 'm really gonna lose it if i'm not in her right now," and he's angling you back to give a loving, gentle pat to your glistening cunt.

rough, calloused hands slide across your bare back with an unexpected gentleness, against the soft curve of your spine as toji presses you into the mattress, so your head is finally resting back against the pillow.

toji's enjoying this, you know that, just from how he's taking your times to pull your thighs apart, sucking in a harsh breath at how your sleek entrance practically winks at him. tugging his hands roughly on his rock-hard cock, all so he can run the fat tip over your clit, making you mewl.

"don't t-tease, toji," you sniffle, feeling the searing tip push up against your clitoral hood, that nerves so stimulated that you're bucking up into him, wanting toji to just put the damn thing in already.

"fuck, doll," toji's taking a small mercy on you, pressing the first inch into your cunt, "i don't 'm the tease here, god knows how long you were jus' jacking off on the other side of the wall. hopin' that i'd come and stuff you like this?"

each inch that's bullying itself into making your head spin, making you wrap arms around his thick neck, just as he presses a soft kiss to the crook of your collarbone, "ya' good, doll? 's not too much for your, hnngh, tight lil' cunt, is it?"

you mewl as he bottoms out, and the stretch is unlike anything you've ever felt before. it's so deliciously big within you, scraping at the inside of your walls, "wan' be on top, toji."

"oh, yeah? lucky that i like ya' this much, givin' me orders and bossin' me around," toji huffs, using thick arms to pull you up instead, flipping you around so he's got you straddling his thighs, split apart so perfectly around his gliding cock.

"mmph, 's much deeper like this, toji," you chase after his lips, running your tongue over the taut, rigid scar that cuts over the right side of his mouth, all while he starts to set a maddening pace, bouncing you like a pretty toy over his cock, swabbing your insides with buttery wads of pre-cum, all sticky and loud in the silence of the night.

"lookin' good, doll," toji's grin can only be described as shark-like, and he's clearly pleased by the echoing squelches from the filthy mess that's dolloped between your groins, the smack of your ass against your thighs, tacky strands sticking to skin.

your chest is pressed against his shirt, and he's so enjoying the view. loves seeing how the swell bounces and hypnotises him, fuck, toji wonders how he's gonna go about the rest of his life away from you and your perfect pussy.

your eyes widen as you glance back, swivelling your head over your shoulder to watch the smacking movement of you against him, at how his thighs hold you up with a steady rhythm, "you're f-fuckin' me really well, toji," and god, he thinks he might just lose it all, then and there. the praise from your dewy lips is rushing straight into his cock, turning his mind to mush as he finds himself on some sort of autopilot.

he needs to cum in you, right now, needs to feel you milk him for all he can give. to stuff your syrupy cunt with mounds of weeping inches, and he's picking up the pace. smacking heavy, laden balls against your skin, so you whine and keen into him.

you're so caught up in the pleasure that you don't even realise toji had said something, words snapping around his teeth as he bounces you over and over, making sure that you ride him good, "w-what?"

"a date, doll," toji groans, smacking your hand away from your clit, just so he can toy with it, faster and faster, "lemme take ya' out properly, what'd ya' say to that, huh?"

"wanna take me o-out?" you all but weep over him, spearheaded on his tip, and raking sharp nails over iron abs, all underneath his tight top, "please, please, t-toji, wanna go out with you! and then," you hiss as he angles himself just right, curved sheath kissing that perfect g-spot deep within you, "and then i wanna do t-this all over again."

it makes toji's hips stutter, "yeah? pretty girl wants me to take her out, parade her around t-town, hah, i can do that. i can do all of that," he's gasping, feeling your tight heat snatch the life out of him. each girthy vein rubbing itself against your tacky cunt, "i can do all of that, and more. jus' lemme show ya', i'll spoil ya' for anyone else. those d-dumb college boys."

and you look at him with such gorgeous, pretty eyes that toji wonders how on earth he's gonna function now, with you so supplanted in his life. on his cock, even. he can taste something faintly sweet and artificial on your tongue, like tangy grape as he sucks on the muscle.

"never wanted a-any of them anyway, jus' you, toji. only you."

toji fushiguro loses his mind, he's cumming and his own orgasm is hitting him so hard that, in the back of his mind, he's concerned at how he's just filling you up. sloppy thrusts slowing down as thick, white translucent spurts paint your insides, right up to where he can see the divot of his tip through your abdomen. where you've taken in him so deep.

"s-shit," toji presses his mouth to yours again, harder, "look what ya' doin' to me, ruining me," and he also feels just a little bad for ruining your sheets, right as your own umpteenth climax for the night hits you, glossy and clear over the black tufts of hair. your pretty mouth pulled open in a wordless cry of his name, but toji doesn't let go. he lets you ride it out, that sticky mess becoming an afterthought for later.

in the hazy glow, toji's eyes wander over the mess of your room. but something else catches his attention, wads of paper flattened by an empty can of soda. he tilts his head, hair falling over his forehead, dampened by sweat. reaching for the paper with his curiosity piqued.

before he can fully read the words, you're suddenly pawing at his arm, practically leaping into him to get in the way, "wait, toji, don't! hey, that's private!" your voice is an odd mix of urgency and embarrassment, nothing like the angelic whimpers from a few minutes ago. you're swatting at his thick hand, trying to grasp at his fingers.

ignoring your protests and squirms, he crumples the paper open and reads the bold, hastily scrawled letters: how to get toji fushiguro in bed.

damn. so you had been responsible for that heater, the staircase, a fake phone call. he always did like them a bit cuckoo-bananas.

toji chuckles darkly, glancing up at you, barely able to suppress a grin. you're flushed, looking like you'd rather disappear into the floor, oddly shy despite the fact that you were so bold, and a minx riding him earlier to hell and back.

"look, i can explain. don't be mad, because i swear —"

toji groans, shifting you slightly in his lap, "mad? doll, 'm hard all over again. how'd you want it this time?"

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro smut #toji x reader #toji smut #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #toji x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #daphworks

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butterbabyflapjack · 7 months ago

Text

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 1): 5k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

This is ridiculous, horny, bloody, silly and dark (in essence, a very dark romantic comedy), so please heed the tags!

Starts after season 1, but with Brian escaping. Sorry if there’s any rough spots, I kinda rushed editing this.

ch.1 is from Brian’s POV, and the rest of the story is from yours. And there aren't nearly enough problematic female characters in the world so I'm making you one 😃

✧˖° chapter 1

Hello again, Miami.

Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.

What’s it been? Eight months? Since I was your most highly wanted criminal?

Guess I just couldn’t stay away.

Time flies when you’re laying low.

Guess I just missed you.

But really, my reason for coming back to dear old Miami–my home, both my real and spiritual birthplace–has a name, a life, and a face. Your name, if you’re really so curious. Your life. Your face. And I intend to leave what remains of all three of those things behind to the hungry bellies of gators before once more absconding stage left.

But why, you might ask? Why do I want to kill you? Horrified, scandalized, even. For what reason had you to die by my skillful hand? And the answer to that is simple: death doesn’t need a reason. Death simply is, and I simply enjoy it.

Though…

Regardless of that irrefutable fact…

I’ll admit.

This particular death–your death–has a slightly more personal reason. And that reason, or at least its causation, was currently chit-chatting with me on the phone.

“Your plane lands at eight?” Dexter asked, and I didn’t waste time with a nod when he wouldn’t see it. Simply staring out across the coast of Costa Rica, the sunset reflected within the dark shadow of my gaze.

Costa Rica… and I’d really wanted to retire somewhere cold.

Not that this was retirement.

It was more of an… unplanned, involuntary vacation. Just until the heat from the feds cooled down.

Then again, I wasn’t waiting for the temp to drop before planning this little excursion back to Miami. But you’d sorta forced my hand in that regard, now hadn’t you?

“Hope you don’t mind if I crash on the couch,” I said, good-natured, and I knew he wouldn’t object. My brother couldn’t feel much–much more than myself–but I sensed a sort of guilt in him for how he’d previously driven me off those eight months ago. Choosing a fake sibling over a real one, one who actually knew who he was… I’d say the guilt had good cause.

I could hear him at his quaint living room/office combo’s computer, typing away at something. Perpetually Distracted Dexter.

“Yeah–yeah, that’d be great,” he said.

I exhaled a little sigh whilst listening to the soft waves roll in beside me. “Why do I feel there’s a but coming?”

“No buts,” said Dexter. “I just, uh…” He seemed distracted, but not by whatever he typed. “I’ll just have a friend over tomorrow. She’ll probably be here when you arrive.”

Ah.

The friend.

The one I’d been silently wishing Dex would just kill himself. Grow suddenly bored of you.

Wishful thinking.

He seemed quite fond.

He wouldn’t shut up about you. Always and forever droning on.

It wasn’t romantic, this interest, or so I’d come to suspect over all these past droning months. I didn’t exactly ask about that, though, half because I really didn’t care and half because of how much the subject of you annoyed me, raised over and over again and ugh, just give it a rest already.

Dex shouldn’t have ‘friends’. The mere concept a fairytale, a mask to people like us. It should be just he and I, two hunters against the world, hunting whomever we like.

“Ah,” I voiced aloud, with the sugar-flaked pleasantry of someone who wasn’t at all picturing severing your aorta with an icepick. “Your little friend will be there to greet me. How nice.”

Dexter must have misread the edge of sarcasm as some sort of concern. “She already knows you’re coming. Don’t worry, she can be trusted.”

Just more proof that my do-good, misguided brother is far too trusting.

“Well,” I said, as though accepting this point as fact. You really can be trusted with my and my brother's secrets–such relief! “I look forward to finally meeting her.” And carving and slicing and dicing her.

I must have forgotten to include that last part out loud, and thus Dexter had no objection–even sounding strangely relieved by my show of good faith in at long last having this introduction.

“See you tomorrow night,” he said, and my lips formed a little smile–instinctual, without any warmth.

“See you then,” I said, then hung up.

And now; here I am. Back in the ever-enchanting sunshine state. My former playground of frozen, meticulously broken toys, and it feels much more like home to be back than I even expected, with just the small matter of ridding you from these sentimental, familial walls.

Walking the concrete pathway to Dex’s Palm Terrace place was nearly surreal, assaulting the walls of my person with waves of distant memories. I’d broken into his beachfront apartment so many times before. Snooping around, getting to know him. Leaving gifts tied up with little red bows. I was basically murderous Saint Claus.

I had only one bag, having traveled here light–a black leather crossbody, which I thumbed the broad strap of whilst knocking with mild knuckles against the door.

Silence. Then, footsteps. Then–

Dexter throws open the door, a smile formed ear to ear like a big, goofy animal.

“Brian,” he says, and somehow it melts me. Chips slightly away at all that frigid, cold frost round my cruel, vacant heart. And his eyes dip over the state of me. The longer hair, dark curls well past my ears, now; just long enough to tuck back but not long enough to stay there. The dark scruff which coats my angled jawline in the absence of shaving for so long.

“Dig the beard,” Dexter says. “Quite the disguise. Bet the ladies love it.”

I smile at the compliment, though if he'd hated the look I'd feel much the same. “One does what one has to to effectively blend,” I return. And it’s hard not to feel somewhat warm, somewhat seen, understood, by my brother before me. The only person in this world who accepts who I am.

Well, not wholly.

Thanks for nothing, Debra.

Still. Since the death of our mother, Dex is the only place I’ve ever belonged, and seeing him now I’m abruptly struck with just how long it’s been.

I don’t wait for him to welcome me in–he’s probably too cordially stunted to properly welcome me, anyway. I just step right up and throw both my arms around him, my baby brother, my other half; cuffing him firmly on the back as I breathe him in.

“It’s been too long,” I say, holding him there for a moment, before pulling back.

Dexter’s expression is torn into a million indecipherable things, but amongst them is his affection for me. The brother who’ll always see him for who he really is. Who truly fathoms that insatiable beast inside him.

The bliss of our reunion’s forced to end, however, because this house has a rat problem. And as I hear a small, feminine throat being cleared from the fluorescent-lit depths behind my brother, my curiosity gets the better of me.

Time to finally put a face to the name I’ve been loathing for weeks.

And there you are. Standing before a metal-limbed armchair nuzzled inside the living room, like you’d sat there then stiffly stood up; uprooted at the sound of my knocking. Frozen, now; lingering. Like you’re caught in a trap you don’t know your way out of. Hands fidgeting as they twist at the hem of your shirt.

It’s like you know you don’t belong here–that this moment is Dexter’s and mine–and for the cleverness of that, at least, I must inwardly applaud you. Though that’s decidedly where all my praise ends.

This is one of those social situations I’ve learned so well to navigate through life in the foster system, masking my aberrance. Awkwardness. Other people’s–not mine. And though I could so effortlessly put you at ease as you stand there fidgeting, I find it more entertaining to draw that part out. For a while, at least.

I must admit, I hadn’t pictured you at all in my head. What you’d look like. Not as anything more than an aggravating, compromising blip I’d soon snuff out the threat of. But if I had pictured you, I wouldn’t have imagined you looking, so…

…Well.

You’re not…

Unnatractive.

I feel one dark brow slowly raising.

And you’re only a friend…?

Whatever must poor Rita think? Seeing the two of you together?

Dexter. You dog.

My eyes trace your expression as you awkwardly hover there in the length of my speculative pause. Myself perfectly content to allow you to hang there in a noose of discomfort all night, and then some. Though eventually I know one of us will have to say something.

This is our fated and much anticipated formal introduction, after all.

So at what feels like long last, I throw you the lifeline that is my smarmiest smile. Knowing full well you won’t know it’s not real. No one but Dex ever does.

“And you must be the friend I’ve heard so much about,” I greet you pleasantly, my deep voice threaded with warmth. Though, peculiarly, that unsure tension in you remains stubbornly in place. Seems if anything only to grow, despite my intent to disarm it.

Huh.

Oh well–it doesn’t deter me. Killing you will be so much easier if you don’t see it coming, so I’m keen on you liking me, letting your guard down. Thus, I graciously continue:

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to finally having you right in front of me.”

Maybe a bit of truth will lube you up. And I watch as your lower lip’s sucked in between your teeth for just a moment whilst you eye me; the motion drawing my studious gaze like a shark’s to blood.

“And why is that?” you ask, which admittedly I wasn’t expecting. Such a nervous mouse, yet you’d put me on the spot.

I can’t place your nerves. I’m perfectly charming. And yes, you’re aware I’m the notorious Ice Truck Killer, but I’m not sure why that would be alarming. Not with the company you keep; namely, my murderous brother. So it must be something else.

And I so hate not knowing things.

“So I can be introduced to you in person, of course,” I say, like it’s obvious, and it should be. Striding in past Dexter as he steps aside to allow me in, shutting and latching the door behind us all; a roomful of killers, or so I’ve been told.

Our eyes never stray in my steady approach; not yours, not mine. My height soon towering over yours, which isn’t unusual for me when meeting new people, nor when standing near almost anyone. Offering my hand and a smile I’ve been told is quite dashing. “Dex has had such wonderful things to say about you.” And I’m sure he has, I just couldn’t be bothered to remember any of them.

My smile could melt steel as if it was butter.

“I’m Brian.”

I won’t lie, I expected you to crumble. Most women love this move. The confidence, the approachable self-assurance. But you eye my outstretched hand as though I might pull you into the fires of hell with me were you to take it, before craning your neck to meet my gaze once more.

“Charmed,” is all you say; unmoving.

Something about that irks a small ripple up my nape, but I just allow my hand to drop graciously back to my side. All practiced, svelte charm still in place.

“So,” I say, by all appearance unconcerned by the lack of civility in my brother’s ill choice of friends. “It almost feels like I already know you, what with the way Dexter’s gone on and on.”

Your gaze steals over to Dexter, hovering there in the distance behind us, before you smile up at me again in a way which feels forced. And I suppose you’re not the talkative sort, though why you keep glancing at Dexter as if waiting for something from him, as if he’ll swoop in and save you, I’m uncertain about.

In due time I’ll figure it out.

“But there’s still one thing I’m curious about,” I say, turning to make myself comfortable. It has been a long trip to get here, after all.

I plop down like a wolf amongst sheep atop Dexter’s hideous couch, legs spread like I own the damn food chain. One arm draped out along the length of its backrest as I eye you somewhat expectantly, still rigid in how you stand. Imagining what you might look like strung upside down by your ankles with a lengthy strap of duct tape kissing those soft lips, holding them shut for me.

The shadows beneath my eyes pinch.

It’s a lovely image.

Maybe you’ll see for yourself.

“And what’s that?” Dexter asks–bravo, Dexter–at least one of you’s courteous enough to ask. And I tilt my darkly curled head at him.

“How exactly did the two of you get to know one another?” I ask. Watching him. Eying you. Hoping my focus might rattle you–just a little. “I’m sure it’s an interesting tale.”

“I’ve already told you,” Dexter says, and he probably has, at least in his unabbreviated sense. “We work together at the precinct.” He dons his playful tone I often find so silly but right now I find I detest. “The lab geek and the cop~”

“Right. But that’s not what I mean,” I slice into his futile comedy routine, “What I mean, is: how did our friend here come to know you’re one of Miami’s most heinous, uncaught serial killers?”

The other, of course, being myself; excepting the whole uncaught thing.

Dex is lucky I’m so forgiving.

I put it forth bluntly, with little room for either one of you to wiggle out of answering. And though my radiance of charisma remains, my intensity’s keen. ‘Cause I must admit; now that I’m here, I’m curious about you. Especially when you seem like such a rabbit in a household of jackals. Weren’t you supposed to be some like-minded killer or something? Perhaps I should have paid closer attention whenever the unwanted topic of you had come up in mine and Dexter’s conversations, instead of bitterly tuning you out.

Strangely, Dexter doesn’t seem to know what to say, and neither do you. Like the story’s too long, too elaborate. As though there's pieces the two of you’d rather omit.

Fascinating.

“She helped me out,” Dex says at last; monotonously shallow, like the words aren’t even his, like he's rehearsed this. “In a time of need.”

I quirk a subtly mocking brow at him from where I’m idly lounged on the couch.

“Why do you sound like a generic thankyou card?” Why, indeed. “C’mon, baby brother–I want specifics. You can tell me.” My dusky gaze passes from him to his lovely, curious friend, hovered opposite the ugly coffee table before me. “We’re all friends here, right?”

It would seem that my smile unnerves you. Which might be annoying if it wasn’t so entertaining a thing to see.

Dexter sighs before trying a more human answer, leaning one bulky shoulder against his white, open-backed bookcase that separates his living room from the office attached.

This whole effectively communicating thing is hard for him.

“It was sort of an accident,” he says, like that’s far more telling. The lacking details seeming to spur you to chime in.

“It was really just me being in the wrong place at the right time,” you elaborate, with the passive front of one pretending the ice they walk on won’t at any moment begin to splinter. Folding your arms against that pensive look I toss you, which I tilt my head in silent question of. Why so nervous? I’m far from daunting, aren’t I?

“I was called to check out an anonymous tip,” you continue, averting your gaze from me far more often than one normally does. “Some sort of suspicious activity at an abandoned storage shed near Palmetto. Myself and my parter.”

You glance at Dex, as if he might continue the tale for you, might rescue you from this, but when he merely quirks a little smile with a similar shrug, you’re forced into proceeding.

“It was supposedly related to a case–which it wasn’t, not that that matters, but…” You let out a breath. Seeming to steady yourself, the recollection, though for all your nervous fidgeting your tone is surprisingly calm. “I walked into the storage shed, it was unlocked, and… And I saw Dexter. Sawing someone’s arm off. Someone who was strapped down to a table in a plastic fucking tutu.”

You glance at Dex, as he detachedly watches you.

“Someone I knew from a previous case,” you continue. “Someone who deserved whatever it was Dexter was doing, and much more than that, too. Which is exactly when I shut that fucking door and assured my partner there was nothing to see here, and we left. Left Dexter to do what he does, undisturbed.”

That’s the end of your story, and I picture the scene, all while some predatorily protective part of me insists on clarifying, “So… That’s it? You saw my brother chopping a man into pieces, and were immediately okay with it? Go Team Dexter? Just like that?”

I try very little to hide my disbelief, ‘cause I don’t buy it. In my experience with cops, and I’ve had plenty, you all tend to be such sticklers when it comes to casual bloodshed and carnage. What’s more, your uptick in nerves isn’t exactly selling me.

My lashes lower in my deliberate examination of you. “Why’d you really not turn my dear brother in?”

In lieu of answering, you once more eye Dex, and that look between you says something.

“It’s complicated,” you say at last. Like you’re waiting for Dexter to speak, but he’d rather wait on you.

The pair of you. Really. You’re like a couple of tongue-tied, helpless kittens. Must I string this conversation on for you?

“Enlighten me,” I say, with something of an edge.

Perhaps I should’ve kept the disarmingly fake smile, because if anything you thrust your guard up.

“Look, I don’t owe you a full explanation of what Dexter and I have been through, okay?”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” I viperously put forth, my pretense of pleasantry slipping. “Seeing as how you know so much about myself. And all without my express knowledge or permission.”

An impermanent issue. One I won't leave Miami without personally seeing resolved. You know far too much–you’re an issue. For Dexter’s sake and for mine, we must unfortunately bid you bon voyage.

“I’d say it’s only fair I know a little more about you,” I continue, cordiality slipped back in place. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The delicate line of your jaw tautens, eyes wavered with wariness and doubt. Refusing to spit out any more, though the longer you’re subject to my critical appraisal, the more the twine of your stubbornness unwinds.

“I… I need someone dead,” you admit at last.

Ah.

There it is.

“And, after seeing Dexter doing… what he does…” You bite your lower lip, as though struggling to recollect straying thoughts. “I need his help. I need his help to kill someone.”

I take my time mulling about your words. Piecing together the part you still aren't saying.

“So… You won’t turn Dexter in, so long as he helps you kill someone. Did I get that right?”

You bite down harsher–immediately shake your head. “No, it’s–it’s more complicated than that!”

But by now I’m barely listening. Turning instead to lift a wry brow at my brother, who’s watching this whole fiasco with a can-I-please-leave-yet look plastered upon his face.

“This is the friend you’ve been telling me about?” I wonder vaguely. “The cop who’s blackmailing you into helping her kill someone?”

“I’m a detective,” you cut in, like that matters, like I care, and I feel my eyes already rolling.

“Detective,” I sarcastically amend, with a scathing glance at you. “So sorry to offend, Detective Whoever-You-Are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m talking to my brother.”

When you mutter back your name under your breath, I make a show of ignoring it.

“So, what?” I instead ask my foolish, good-hearted kin. “You’re actually going to help her kill someone?”

His lack of answer’s enough. And at his arms-folded silence, I ruminatively tut my tongue.

“Doesn’t seem like you, Dex… Not the edict-ruled brother I know.” I try not to let my tone grow too ingratiating whilst goading, “What about your beloved code?”

Dexter exhales a stiff breath. Putting forth, “It’s more than that.”

“More?”

“Like she said, it’s complicated.”

“Has the word ‘complicated’ been redefined as ‘indescribably moronic and impossible to explain’ sometime in the last fifteen seconds?” I return, incredulously flat. Eying their strange and stilted silence with dwindling patience. “What aren’t the two of you telling me…?”

You’re biting your lip like you’re biting back words, and I watch, waiting, biding my time for those bit-back words to get the better of you–though surprisingly, it’s Dexter who breaks first.

“It’s nothing about that, it’s…” He rubs the back of his sand-colored head, roughing his hair up with tense distraction. “Well, it is about that, in a sense. I didn’t know how to bring this up. I just… I have to leave town for the weekend,” he finally gets out. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m headed out.”

I’m too nonplussed to hide the creeping edge of my bemusement.

That’s what he’s been having trouble saying?

He drops this like it’ll land like a bombshell on our entire reunion, before rushing at whatever my bland expression, “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be back Monday bright and early.”

To be honest, I’m mostly confused about why this seemed so hard for either one of you bumbling idiots to tell me. Or why you’re bumbling about it at all. Why should I care if he’ll be gone for forty-eight more measly hours after we've been separated for almost a year? And for many, many years before that? Does he actually expect me to mourn him till Monday?

“Big plans with the family?” I venture coolly, and Dexter’s broad shoulders bunch into a shrug, as though he’s cornered and a shrug is all that might save him.

“It’s a whole thing,” he explains. “Cody has a scouting trip, then Rita wanted to make a whole weekend out of it with the grandparents–I’ll spare you the details.”

Yes, thank you for that.

Dexter the family man. It’s so sweet it’s nauseating.

“So you’re taking your fake kids camping so you can keep playing domesticated dad to a woman and children who’d hate you if they knew who you really are?” My smile’s so feigned it hurts. “Sounds like a great time.”

My brother, the shrugger, shrugs once again. Doesn’t even try to defend my interpretive accusation. “I gotta be there.”

“Well have fun on your little adventure,” I muse; side-eying him. “Not sure why it took you this long to tell me. I’m sure I’ll find some way to busy myself in the meantime.”

You and Dexter exchange that look again. That look which betrays how you still haven’t shared whatever’s so lodged down your throats and wherever this is really going, and by this point it’s driving me toward wanting to just rip open your necks to drag whatever it is out, myself.

“Well, actually,” my brother begins, struggling once more with saying things. “I’ve already got an idea that’ll keep you busy in mind.”

I steady him in the crosshairs of my vision. Well. Now we might be getting somewhere. And I can’t deny my interest, much like my frustration, is piqued.

“Oh?”

“A favor, really,” he adds, without elaborating, and I really am going to rip the words right out of him.

“Are you going to tell me what that favor is?” I’m finally forced to ask, before glancing exasperatedly at you. “Or perhaps I should defer to your translator?”

There you go, nervously rubbing that elbow again, though I find myself oddly mesmerized by the motion of it. I can’t say for what cause, other than I’m not blind, and you’re obviously attractive. Watching you anxiously stand there is becoming one of my favorite pastimes.

“I, um,” you mumble, so quietly I almost can’t hear you. A nervous mouse again, one my nature is stirred to chase. “Well. Dexter was going to help me with–you know… What I was saying before. We have everything planned for tomorrow, and it has to happen tomorrow.” You seem strangely adamant about this, and I don’t care enough to question the ‘why’, just as I don’t care for the ‘who’–I’ll take your word for it. “But, um, with Dexter out of town…”

Helpless, as if to say any more’s an impossible task, you glance to Dexter for support.

“Really, the two of you,” I lowly muse. Eyes glistening between the pair of you, alight with my wicked amusement. Stretching out more broadly on the throne of Dexter’s hideous couch. “You could almost put a full sentence together so long as you tag one another in after every breath.”

The taunt’s enough to unlodge wherever Dexter’s tongue’s at.

“I need you to help her kill this guy while I’m gone,” he finally says bluntly. Arms folded, expression stern, yet hinted by what may as well be him begging me, which in itself, is…

Well. He’s never asked me for anything. Not like this. Though I certainly don’t owe him any favors…

“I know you know how to set up a proper kill room,” he states, and he should–he’s seen my imitation of his plastic-drenched kill room, firsthand. I’ve studied his work more than anyone. Emulated it to perfection, and all for a happily-ever-after he refused to take part of, spat cold in my face.

For a moment, I feel almost human in how I can’t seem to react or respond to this request. Though as I watch the mirrored hope in you both, as the idea of this slowly settles, I find that it doesn’t completely bore me…

My eyes drift to you. Singling you out. Stringing round your anxious expression. And you’ve mettle, at least, to not look away from the barbs of my musing intensity.

So. This is why you’ve been acting so sheepishly inept. You need big bad Brian’s help with something.

It’s laughably cute, the idea of you killing, and already I know I’m going to do it. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make you sit in it a little. Take my time in toying with you, first.

“You want me to babysit your blackmailing little friend here,” I say to Dex, with raven-dark eyes still on you, “while she attempts–and correct me if I’m wrong here–her first kill?”

I can tell you can feel how my gaze is dissecting you. Pulling apart, piecing together, assessing every piece and shape and shade of you. It makes you squirm, and I love it; sparing a moment to slide my tongue over the sharpness of my teeth as I feast on such a beautiful reaction.

I turn back to Dex. “What makes you think she’s even capable?”

“I’m capable,” you insist, drawing my gaze again. And even through those nerves roused in my presence, you appear quite convinced of it.

Interesting.

“I can do this,” you again allege. With such frail confidence, but confidence nonetheless. “I just… need a little help.”

I tamp down the rearing head of my inquisitiveness. Ensure my interest remains vague in how I lackadaisically eye you.

“Help with what, exactly?” I slowly ask. And it’s not a no, which I’m amused to see is so surprising.

You blink a few times, eyes growing wider, more determined–before you’re explaining, quickly, as though whatever luck this is may run out.

“Getting him to the kill site,” you say succinctly, with all the puffed-up bravado of a fluffy little rabbit pretending that they’ve slayed a fox before, and it really is amusing. “Moving the body. Clean-up.”

I let my watchful silence drag on. Held in supposed indecisive contemplation. Should I? Should I? Until, when I can nearly hear your fretting heartbeat, I feel one corner of my lips slowly quirk up. Watching every minor movement of you like a fox might a meal, might a rabbit, and find I really wouldn’t mind taking a bite.

“Don’t need help doing the deed, then?” I subtly ask you.

Your eyebrows flicker to a knot. Lips pressing flat, before you shake your head at me. “No.”

“You sure?” I further goad, with silken smoothness. Loving those little cracks of hesitation along your lovely surface so much I’m inclined to hammer in even more of them. “‘Cause I won’t kill him for you. You have to do that, yourself. And what’s more, if you for any reason chicken out on me and can’t follow through with all this…” I calmly smile. “I’ll simply leave you there all alone with whatever maddened mess of whoever this man you’ve left behind.” The idea of it sparks a delicious flame somewhere deep below my cavernous lack of heart. “After ensuring he’s woken up, first, of course. Aware. Pissed off. Untied.”

I smile my cheshire smile as that resolve in you flickers in place; the smallest glow, so nearly snuffed out already.

“So?” I spur in your uncertain silence. “Do we have a deal, little killer?”

And still, you hesitate. Seeming to weigh my words with care, along with the cost of your own, which I certainly appreciate. You’re not as stupid as I’d originally believed, in any case.

At long last, you nod, but I don’t move, don’t even blink from how I wolfishly watch you from my throne of Dexter’s couch. Not until you say the words out loud. And you will, if you want my help. You have to.

If that’s a flash of resentment within those pretty eyes of yours, it only causes my broadening smirk.

“Fine,” you say at last, after thickly swallowing. “We have a deal.”

And surely light must dance in my entertained eyes as I bite back just how pleased I am by this answer.

This should be fun.

✧˖° chapter 2

#brian moser x reader #brian moser x you #brian moser #dexter #reader insert #wild animals #slasher x reader #fanfiction #rudy cooper #ice truck killer

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cellarspider · 4 months ago

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Rambles in Star Wars History: The extreme shenanigans that changed an Empire

Bioware games can absolutely fascinate me, in part because of their worldbuilding, and in part because of where the worldbuilding ends. I mean, I did a whole long series of posts on the grammar of Qunlat and I have at least a dozen essays worth of material of exegetical analysis of religion in Dragon Age kicking around in my brain, which I keep threatening to actually manifest.

But since I'm here with my worldbuilding hat on, I'm going to ramble about Star Wars: The Old Republic, focusing on some of the sometimes-hilarious drama that's implied by the plot, and the implications for how these shenanigans remade a major galactic society in the process. Involved will be a man who faked his death to get out of going to meetings, a wine uncle who might become emperor, a living scowl with dangerous shoulders, and other assorted animals.

Expect a lot of bonus rambles in the image alt-texts, which is where I store commentary and jokes that I can't fit into the flow of the main post.

———

Before I dig into the topic at hand, I have to set the scene for those who don't know the game, or have forgotten in the fourteen years since the game launched.

Spoilers in the post below for Act 1-3 of the Imperial Agent, Sith Warrior, and Inquisitor storylines, Act 1 of the Jedi Knight storyline, the post-Act 3 Battle of Ilum flashpoint, and for various expansions including Rise of the Emperor, Knights of the Fallen Empire, Onslaught, and Legacy of the Sith. Assume that all reference links to Wookieepedia contain major spoilers.

SWTOR is an MMO set 3600 years before the Skywalkers crashed through the ceiling tiles of the galaxy, though it's not to say anything was less chaotic back then, just different chaos.

(Pictured: Anakin Skywalker, circa 32 BBY-4 ABY)

In this time, the titular Old Republic is opposed by a Sith Empire, which is precisely as functional as one might expect. After a decades-long conflict that ended with a Sith victory but left both sides exhausted, a state of cold war began. The Jedi, their Grand Temple destroyed, left Republic space to settle on an ancestral world. The Republic, battered and reeling, tried to recover its stride through use of its superior size and resources, and producing a truly unhinged number of superweapons.

The Sith Empire, in some ways, tried to pretend everything was fine for quite a while. They had successfully forced the Republic into a favorable treaty to end the war. They'd gained territory, they had a lot of work to do there.

…But as things started to look more and more like war again, they were left with the uncomfortable realization that they had sorta kinda killed most of the Sith in the last war, and Imperial citizens in good standing weren't producing enough Force-sensitive kids fast enough to rebuild the losses. Might've had something to do with most of them being dead.

The Empire, of course, is an absolute clusterfuck of a society. Slaves toil to maintain its power. Children of a slave and a citizen will be citizens themselves—unless they're "aliens", a category that includes everyone that isn't a human or a Sith pureblood, the original Sith species.

Being a citizen isn't great either: The Force-blind face mandatory conscription into the military, and can never rise to the highest echelons of society. Above them, the Sith act as a semi-hereditary aristocracy of evil space-wizards that serve an immortal, eldritch Emperor, their living god who has also kiiiind of gone AWOL for reasons only a few of them understand. He's torn between doing his job or staring at a living paperweight, and the paperweight has been winning. He also recently got trapped by an evil hole in the ground, it's complicated.

With the Emperor incommunicado, the duties of the state fall to the Dark Council, a ruling body of up to twelve Dark Lords of the Sith. Each have their own sphere of governmental influence, which are, one can only assume, very dark as well.

Presumably, the Dark Council had something to do with the inevitable yet still surprising solution to their space wizard deficit: over a thousand years of laws were suddenly overturned. Slaves, aliens, and prisoners were not only permitted to become Sith, it was now mandatory that they report for induction into training programs if they possessed any hint of Force-sensitivity.

This is how one of the eight protagonists of the MMO gets their start: if you play the Sith Inquisitor plotline, you begin as a former slave who has survived basic training and made it to the Sith Academy, where your teacher dearly wants to kill you. Your first mission: survive school.

I'm sure this is very relatable to quite a lot of you.

Now that I've got my PhD with only a few gray hairs, I'm looking back at this premise and thinking: This would completely upend the social framework of the Empire. You'd have every established Sith Lord in the Empire scrambling to kill these threats to their power, or harness them against their enemies, or both.

This is actually canon, but canon never touches on the broader, systemic implications of what the new Sith would do, and who they were before—Sure, the overseers of the training programs seem to be doing their damnedest to kill and undermine the newbies while maintaining plausible deniability, but enough of them survive to reshape the Empire. We know that. You play as one of them.

How in the fuck did the Dark Council ever manage to get this policy implemented in the first place? Obviously they did somehow, but the specifics are never mentioned.

But the specifics have the possibility to be hilarious.

The Dark Council itself is composed of Sith who either killed their way to the top, or inherited their seat from their Sith master—who they probably murdered. Turnover on most Council seats is incredibly high. The Spheres of Ancient Knowledge, Technology, and Military Offense each have three different Councilors within a single year, for example.

This also means that whoever ends up in charge of a Sphere might be entirely unsuited for it. Who heads up the Sphere of Expansion and Diplomacy? The least diplomatic guy on the Council, naturally. He goes by Darth Ravage, which fits in well enough with the three different Darths whose names mean 'death' (Thanaton, Mortis, and Rictus). The player can even end up as Darth Nox--'Darth Night'. You get the title by killing one of the Darth Deaths.

So, which of these barely-domesticated evil goths probably voted to allow 'inferior' beings to become Sith, overturning a fundamental tenet of imperial sith philosophy? Probably not the guy in charge of Sith Philosophy! We never see him, but he seems to have been a traditionalist. On the other hand, Darth "Murder has no rules" Ravage might not be huge on tradition, so we can mark him down as a "maybe". But he doesn't seem to be an instigator for something like this.

But on the subject of instigators: Darth Jadus.

Darth Jadus is an experience. While many of the other Council members make it quite clear they're angry enough to chew on the furniture, Jadus unnerves all of them by being utterly calm and composed, as long as you don't count how intensely fervent and irrational he sounds when he starts talking about the Dark Side. He's unhinged in a distressingly hinged-seeming way.

Heading up the Sphere of Intelligence, Jadus is a noted iconoclast on the Dark Council, using his authority to open Imperial Intelligence positions to aliens. He chooses slaves and Force-blind citizens to be his advisors and agents, ignoring the traditional power structures of the Sith. He prefers his literal cult following of fanatical adherents instead, who see him as a visionary savior, a terrifying inevitability, or both.

This means he seems to have basically no interest in elevating other Sith. In fact, he hates the way the rest of them run the Empire. Making more of them might potentially be against his interests.

Or at least it would be, if he didn't have some long-running secret plans that he wants to keep the other Dark Council members from catching wind of. Advocating for slaves, aliens and convicts to become Sith would superficially fall in line with his philosophy, and just raising the idea in public could cause such social chaos that his true plans would benefit from it. Jadus is also the most genre-savvy sith in the entire game: he seems to almost be aware at points that he's neither the protagonist nor main antagonist, and thus his evil plans involve not messing with either of them. When he jostles up against the main plot and realizes he has no plausible means to derail it, he responds by leaving the plot entirely.

Given the tactical chaos and uncomfortably fourth wall-touching strategies Jadus makes use of, let's mark him down as a "yes".

But Jadus is an unpopular one on the Council. He's creepy. Sith HATE feeling creeped out. That's supposed to happen to other people, dammit, not them! And with his disinterest in politics and his deep interest in foisting his manifesto on everyone, he's not the most effective Dark Councilor.

He might be able to pull in a few—Darth Decimus, head of Military Strategy, seems to have been quite willing to exploit any advantage he might be able to squeeze out of a situation. Fun side note, his voice actor also played the First Order officer who was just so done with Hux at the beginning of The Last Jedi.

youtube

[Video Description: A compilation of Mark Lewis Jones as Captain Moden Canady from The Last Jedi, with the video quality partially encrunchified by YouTube. This includes all of his shots from the film, from arrival of the Seige Dreadnought Fulminatrix, to the extremely annoyed look he gives the fireball that kills him. Sound supervisor Matt Wood was apparently pretty sure "FIRE ON THE BASE!" was going to be used as an EDM drop, and I can confirm, I've heard it out in the wild.]

Who else have we got rattling around in this Council, who might have extremely ridiculous reasons to vote yes? Well, we have Darth Vengean, head of Military Offense, was all about the Offense. Who needs defense? That nerd Darth Marr? HA! No, Vengean wanted to restart the war with the Republic. More bodies for the war machine would probably be fine with him.

Speaking of that nerd Darth Marr, Darth Marr.

Apparently he designed this armor himself. Solid effort, my man.

Marr is in his sixties by the time the game happens. He's one of the longest-surviving Dark Councilors, and he sounds so tired of his coworkers in every scene he's in. Heading up the Defense of the Empire, Marr also is the de facto leader of the Dark Council, by dint of being the only adult in the room.

Much like Jadus, he distances himself from the backstabbery and rivalries among the Council members. Unlike Jadus, he 100% means it, and has been focused on not making the Empire explode. He eventually ends up as the unofficial leader of the Empire until he gets one-shotted so hard it makes his ghost chill out a bit. He keeps the spikes, though.

So, if there's anyone on the Council who might vote for this on purely practical grounds, and has the power to push others into agreeing with him, because so help him if they don't stop holding duels in the conference room he's going to turn this Empire around—

Nobody listens to him on that, by the way. Both the Sith main plots involve duels in the conference room.

In fact, one of those duels is egged on by our last suspect. Marr might be a contender for longest-running Dark Councilor, but there is another candidate: Darth Vowrawn, who seems to be having a much better time being on the Council than Marr. I suspect the only reason why he doesn't have a bucket of popcorn with him in the Council chambers is because somebody made a rule that he had to stop doing that.

Vowrawn is a surprisingly cheerful old bastard who seems to have turned his hobby into his job. He shows up 'fashionably late' to someone else's attempted coup, after lamenting he can't sell tickets to the clusterfuck that's about to commence. In the expansions to the game, he can outmaneuver and outlive all of the competition and end up becoming the Emperor, at the age of 87.

Vowrawn is also indifferent to against the Empire's policies--he supports the ascension of a Zabrak to the Dark Council, and takes one as an apprentice as well. Beyond that, Vowrawn would have to support this move, because he's instrumental in any large project like this, both politically and practically. While the others I've mentioned all have roles explicitly to do with the aggressive expansion or protection of the Empire, Vowrawn heads the Sphere of Production and Logistics. In essence, he's the one who can decide whether all these other bozos get to eat or not.

If Vowrawn didn't accept this change, then it would have failed. So, he's a definite "yes" by default.

Speaking of bastards who are still active well into their eighties, we have one last major figure who isn't on the Council that likely advocated for this: Darth Malgus.

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[Video Description: The "Deceived" trailer, set ten years before the game. God, I love this thing. This was the first trailer I saw for the game, and it got me, it really did. The Sith are just as ridiculous as they should be, combined with choreography that feels a lot more crunchy than lightsaber combat had been before, with distinct combat styles for the two main fighters. It's quick, it's impactful, and it's got a memorable conclusion. Love it.]

Malgus is as anti-racist and anti-classist as Jadus is, but without the insane transcendental Dark Side philosophy. Instead, he has an insane philosophy of bettering the Empire through eternal war, which he believes everyone should have an equal ability to participate in. He is what would happen if a Warhammer 40k character had an inside voice.

youtube

[Video Description: The "Disorder" cinematic trailer, set before the Legacy of the Sith expansion. Malgus is 75 here. Man's held together by spite and screws and whatever nutrients you can absorb by being thrown through walls. He's fully given up on the Sith Order at this point and is trying to do his own thing, and he makes it look rad. The choreography has only gotten better, goddamn. Why did it take me three goddamn years to watch this. IT'S REALLY GOOD.]

Malgus is a big deal in the military, with a lot of support from both the Force-blind soldiers and earning the loyalty of a surprising cross-section of Sith. We know this, because he nearly hijacks the Empire at one point in the early expansions. He'd be into this idea, and he probably advocated for it. While he'd have the most direct interaction with the military-related Councilors we already have in the "yes" column, he also has a history of annoying the bejeezus out of other Sith on "his" turf, so who knows! He may have been more persuasive to the others we haven't dug into.

And we can't really dig into all of them at the depth we have with some. Despite how bogglingly huge SWTOR is and the two thousand four hundred and ninety-five named characters and "Additional Voices" credits in IMDb, we never meet some of the Dark Councilors. If you don't play all the eight main storylines, you won't see all of them in the game. I'll admit, I've never seen Darth Hadra, because I've never gotten that far in a Republic-aligned storyline! The Sith you encounter in their stories can often be more one-note, because they're purely there as antagonists rather than people you are legally required to hang out with, and thus have more opportunity to pester mercilessly.

[Video Description: A clip from my own Warrior run-through, featuring my big lad Rejalgar, his coolest friend Vette, and his boss, Darth Baras, who is presently having a screaming tantrum, which Rejalgar makes worse with the most delightfully straight-faced "Is there a problem here?". The Warrior plotline lets you play things sincerely evil, sincerely noble, or sincerely hilarious. Do you want to see Jedi bluescreen when a Sith just straight-up refuses to be violent? Do you want to sidestep a boss fight by offering a family a government pension, something your boss commends as being very devious and evil? Do you want to break up a fight between gangs by threatening to eat them? Come play the Sith Warrior storyline, and be the chaos you want to see in the galaxy!]

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[Video Description, from a clip I uploaded to YT specifically for this post after I found out you can only upload one video per tumblr post wtf: A clip from my Inquisitor run-through, featuring my extremely shirtless lad, Sericus, playing coy and a little airheaded when called up by his Sith master, Darth Zash. Back in the day, Purebloods weren't supposed to be played as canon for this storyline, but there were tweaks later made to dialog that provided a canon explanation for how someone with visible Sith ancestry could end up in this situation. The storyline, however, unfortunately does not fully account for a character whose ideal job description is 'villain's beautiful and deceptively intelligent consort, the true power behind the throne'. It assumes you're playing a character who wants to go conquer and/or do mad wizard-science. Bonus points for eventually letting you marry your eight foot tall razor-faced cannibal thrall though, that's very fun.]

Why don't we see all of the Dark Council? Well, because they're ultimately not important to the story as a group. Events keep you locked tightly under the purview of just one or two of them on the Sith side of things, before the post-game and expansion plots launch you into the experience of being a major player in Imperial affairs, and Imperial affairs launch themselves at you in return.

Everyone realizes the Emperor wants to eat them. Then he dies, except he doesn't. Malgus takes over the Empire for a few weeks. Marr takes over, but half the Council is dead and the rest are still in orientation and are probably also dead, because their would-be successors assassinated them. The Emperor, only mildly inconvenienced by also being dead, eats a planet. Then things go completely off the deep end, and the Dark Council is no longer your concern at all.

It's economical storytelling to not belabor the rest of the Councilors, and playing through as an ex-slave Inquisitor, you continue to face enough challenges directly linked to your background that the resistance feels systemic, even if you don't actually see all that many others who are facing the same issues.

But I think there's a lot of potential for some really wild storytelling in there. Your character receives some level of basic training before they reach the Sith Academy, along with a whole batch of ex-slaves. What did that entail? How was it organized? What happens when folks from abolitionist movements start being trained as sith, gaining all the attendant legal authority over the life and death of others?

And what about the prisoners who were released for training? While one canon option is to play a character who was facing immediate execution for participation in violent anti-Imperial resistance, at least a fair chunk of Force-sensitive prisoners were probably serving longer sentences. What happens when prison gangs start gaining a foothold in the Sith Academy, where they're too dysfunctional to even form Mean Girl cliques? What happens when some of their members become full Sith? How many of them might have Hutt backing, or even funding from the Republic Secret Intelligence Service?

These are the sorts of things the Sith themselves are terrified of. This earns a very sarcastic thoughts and prayers to them, of course. Yet it truly is wild to think about the decision-making process that went into this massive societal shift that the game treats as simply a piece of inciting incident for two plotlines out of eight: Twelve unhinged people sat down in some extremely high-backed chairs one day and voted to give everyone equal access to lightning.

I love Star Wars, it's just the funniest shit imaginable sometimes.

#star wars #star wars: the old republic #swtor #swtor meta #darth jadus #darth marr #darth vowrawn #the sith empire is held together with only chewing gum and bad vibes #and it's hilarious #love these terrible idiots

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sminny-wew · 3 months ago

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This is all just my own speculation, but I think Howdy might be next on the Witnessing The Horrors train. And I don't have an explanation for it rn but based on the recurring presence of the Buggle, I strongly feel like Barnaby's going to be involved somehow since he's Howdy's best customer (something something watchdog)

(Putting this under a Read More b/c I wound up having a lot to say)

Eddie's moment in the Homewarming update was based around him not knowing what to do with himself when he's not being the mailman, the role he was made for. Poppy's moment in the first Looky-Loo mini-update strikes me as being about her not knowing how not to be a big chicken (the role she was made for), as well as the other neighbors not knowing how to include her and thinking it's better to just trap her in her own house than to compromise with her, making her nerves worse as a result. Julie's moment in the Springtime Salutations update was about her insecurities in her relationships with her family and Frank, her insecurity in her roles (make the flowers bloom, invent new games, and overall be the most joyful neighbor), and not knowing what to do when spring comes early or a flower just won't bloom no matter what she does.

Howdy's role is to be a businessman, to supply his neighbors with what they need and sell them what they don't. My guess is that Howdy's moment will have something to do with supply and demand, his job and his personal life becoming indistinguishable from each other, and the pressure that family, customers, and superiors can put on a person to meet certain expectations. I also highly suspect, based on other people's observations about the flower from Julie's hidden videos resembling the logo, that Marlo will be relevant again.

There's an old saying about employment that goes, "If you love what you do, you'll never work a day in your life." But in-universe, Welcome Home is a product of its time (1969-1974), when America was kinda-sorta still riding the high of its post-World War 2 economic prosperity but was beginning to see a rise in income inequality. (What a funny coincidence that Welcome Home presumably aired while Nixon was president...) I don't think I need to tell you that, in 2025, it's harder than ever to find successful, long-term employment that will earn you a livable wage without working yourself to death or requiring a college degree that will plunge you into lifelong debt. Things have changed a lot since the neighborhood left the airwaves (assuming WH was ever even a real show in-universe).

But I digress. Howdy Pillar's Going Through The Horrors™ moment.

What happens to Howdy when his best customer (Barnaby) is preoccupied, either by sickness or a prior engagement? Do his nerves about financial success ever stress him out, as implied in that image of him and Anthony Rancho? What happens when Howdy cannot meet the demands of his neighbors to supply them with what they need? How would Howdy react if the neighbors suddenly decided to make their own resources, instead of buying from him?

If Howdy's not a breadwinner, appeasing his family and the businessmen at Marlo by selling enough goods to be considered a profitable business investment well off, then who is he?

He doesn't know.

#welcome home #welcome home spoilers #howdy pillar #barnaby b beagle #anthony rancho #FOR THE RECORD IDK IF ANTHONY RANCHO WILL BE A SIGNIFICANT CHARACTER OUTSIDE OF THAT AD FOR THE WH STORE #I JUST THINK HE REALLY EMBODIES THE POINT I WAS TRYING TO GET AT WITH HOWDY'S CONFLICT

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prettyflyshyguy · 25 days ago

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Hey hey hey it's me again I'm here to talk about my favourite fucked up guy

OK. I'm sick, maybe slightly delirious because of it, but in honor of EP7 dropping tomorrow (and hopefully his backstory with it) I need to get my theory crafting out into the wild now so we can all check in tomorrow and see what changes/what I double down on.

During my viewing of E2 I made the comment: "Was he augmented without his consent?" and I'm willing to put money down that I'm right.

Before I dive into my extensive E1-6 Gurathin thoughts, theories and observational commentary, a quick housekeeping: This is 95% based off my personal observations of the show (just the released episodes, no outside source media), with the remaining 5% me looking at a small amount of other peoples meta thoughts and commentary - I haven't read the books yet and I plan to once S1 is wrapped up!

If you have thoughts and opinions on my thoughts and opinions, please feel free to chuck a comment on this post but PLEASE do not spoil the books or reference book Gurathin on this post - I'm enjoying the show being 100% an unknown to me and how it's unfolding, so I'm trying to just experience it that way so every new piece of information is an exciting revelation for me!!! I promise I'll read the books haha. This entire post is 100% show only Gurathin content, no book allowed.

Let's dive in. This'll be a long post, so all the meat is under the cut. I fucking love this guy so, so, so much. And I have a lot I wanna say about him.

INTRODUCTION:

When we first see him he's deeply uncomfortable in the dealership room and really doesn't want the team to get a secunit. All the body language and the way he looks at mensah screams that he thinks its a bad idea. He's asked to join the group communion and doesn't at first, but the gang pull him in which immediately shows they're used to his self isolating behaviour but they accept its a quirk and will nudge him when necessary. In a number of other scenes he's with the group but maintaining a distance when they're huddled, little things imply he's involved and definitely socially a part of the group but he also is at times more separate (dancing scene E1 he's clearly involved and a part of it and enjoying himself) vs E4 when they're trying to contact deltfall (everyone is huddled and touching each other and he's distinctly pacing behind them).

E1 also has a fun moment where Ratthi is painting the base and Gura comments "does this wash off?" which knowing he never grew up on preservation alliance, I thought that was a nice touch. I'm in this picture and I don't like it sorta character. Not so much a rules stickler but maybe a worry-er, someone who's conscious or concerned about things that others aren't as fussed by.

The hopper secret meeting scene - he's clearly cared for, the team talk to him and say his feelings are valid but they're not necessarily hearing him, and he's frustrated by it. He operates slightly differently to them and this clearly isolates him from certain group discussions. From day 1 he's uncomfortable about having a secunit on board, at all, and the second something weird happens he's immediately on the full scale defensive - whereas everyone else is more immediately forgiving, less concerned. The way he references how much he cares about his friends to MB during the Eye Contact scene emphasises how important their lives and their safety are to him.

Now he's obviously got some trauma, possibly relating to the company or a mix of things.

After the initial sandworm attack someone (I think it was Mensah from memory) comment's that "(he) has good reason not to trust the company."

After Bharadwaj has physically recovered from the sandworm attack, he accidentally scares her when he approaches her and apologises, saying "it's an old habit, being quiet." It's a quick line that I think carries a lot more weight than it initially seems to have.

He mentions having joined preservation alliance 6 years ago but we don't know where he was at prior. He's clearly not all about how presaux operate but he still feels at home with them and they deeply respect and love him in their own way, despite differences in perspective. He's valued with them. Despite this I firmly believe he deeply feels a sense of disconnection - with the crew, especially in how they treat MB as more of a person at first (pre reveal) and with himself. Bear with me, I'll explain as I go.

He's insistent on the depersonalisation of their secunit - reminding the team that it's not a person, it's not a man or a human, it's an it in the sense that it's a tool, an object, and serves a function the same way any other piece of technology they use does. And it runs the risk of not working properly. Machines aren't supposed to think or feel, they're supposed to execute a task. It being controlled by the company leaves them with a lack of agency over this thing that's highly dangerous, that's supposed to protect them. He seems incredibly, personally, fearfull - directly telling Mensah at one point about how secunits "don't go through things!" and then commenting on what, in his mind, it is that they do. Kill things. Maim things. The language use here is broad - their job is to kill things. Their job is to maim things. Perhaps he's simply referring to things like aggressive fauna. Maybe he's referring to something else.

We know he doesn't know much about how secunits specifically work (he tells us this directly in E2), but we also as an audience don't know how much he knows about constructs, and AI in general (in this fictional setting). He didn't know secunit's have faces. The whole team object to the idea of a machine that seemingly could have some form of 'autonomy' being shackled by something like the governor module - they talk about this in the early eps, but it feels like they don't quite understand the entire picture at the same time - and neither does Gurathin. None of them quite realise what a construct is, how it operates, and the gravity of is existence and circumstance. When MB reveals its face, this starts to sink in with them. Gura's no exception here.

Let's move onto his RELATIONSHIPS.

MENSAH:

He obviously deeply cares about the crew (eye contact ep - I firmly believe when he threatened MB he didn't just mean Mensah when he said "I care about my friends" - he goes and holds Bharadwaj's hand when she wakes up- the one thing Medbay couldn't do was human connection)

It's strongly established that he really meant it with his whole chest when he said "I trust you" referring to the presaux team. But it's also clear in his behaviour that he cares about Mensah more.

Let's talk about the elephant in the room first - the pillow scene.

Not to defend him sneaking into her room - but I've seen a few takes on this scene that just paint him with a brush as being A Creep(tm) with no further consideration, and I don't think this is fair to his character. The act of him sneaking in, and then comforting himself with her pillow (MB is an unreliable narrator. I don't know if he was sniffing it, or just embracing it, and frankly the details don't matter - it cuts right as he starts to appear to cry) - the act of doing whatever it was, was creepy, and innapropriate boundary crossing. Absolutely. However - everyone of the humans in the presaux team have some kind of issue or problem with their behavior.

None of these people is without significant character fault.

So while his behaviour in this one scene was weird, I feel it speaks volumes about something unrequitted between him and Mensah, and his inability to express this to her. He deeply desires connection, but can't bring himself to bring it up.

He attempts to apologise to her after he insists she doesn't take the secunit with her on a trip, he feels intense guilt over that decision and his insistency impacting her safety in E2. He's conflicted about it because he genuinely is concerned it's a danger to the crew, but he deeply cares for and respects her and her almost getting seriously hurt absolutely terriffied him. Her subsequent blowing off of him - "I just need a shower.", rejecting his attempt at comfort, closeness and connection when she physically closes the door (and metaphorically closes a door) in his face - she likely has no idea how much of a mental sledgehammer it is to him.

She has every right to want and to ask for space - but it's this critical miscommunication (or lack of communication) between them that is clearly a long running and on-going thing.

In E5 it's also very clear he's cut up when Mensah tells him Pin-Lee is the 2nd in charge if anything goes wrong - he accepts it because he respects her but you can tell he's hurt by it.

They've been long time friends, I'm going to guess their friendship pre-dates him joining Pres Alliance based on how he brings it up in E2, and maybe there's an imbalance of how each other views their relationship, in their own heads. Again: emphasis on miscommunication, something unrequited because it's left unspoken, maybe there's that classic fear of "I don't wanna fuck this all up by being honest" - they have a good thing going and maybe he doesn't wanna ruin it. He briefly looks at the photo of her family with fondness (going off memory here, correct me if I'm wrong)

Just to clarify: I think at times his behavior is:

-definitively creepy in action (pillow)

-occasionally miss-read as creepy, especially when viewed through MB's unreliable narration and personal bias (he's just weird and different sometimes, much like many normal people are)

-he's not a Creep, but the pillow scene was inappropriate/a bit creepy

Ironic for MB to call him a Creep when it can access full security feeds and chose to brain blast him with his coworkers going at it - a great shift in framing because to MB it doesn't care/views the voyeurism differently because its a construct and security is its job (not to mention its personal distaste/lack of interest in copulation as it were)

but that's really the joke of it all, ain't it!

Slight tangent aside, let's move onto his other pivotal relationship in the show.

MURDERBOT (AND HOW GURATHIN'S NOT ENTIRELY HUMAN HIMSELF):

Not-fully-human Human and partially-human NonHuman. Name a more iconic duo. I'll wait.

So far, we don't know much about his augments and how he feels about them, or how anyone else feels about them. It all seems very matter of fact and straight forward. MB just describes the augments as 'fancy' in a sarcastic tone (I have more to say on MB's thoughts on augments however), so this could imply augmentation is a rarity or something reserved. He's immediately othered by MB's introductions of the crew as being the only augmented human.

It's all very pragmatic and function based. But it inevitably means he can do things no one else can, and the way he interacts with the world and tech is different to the other members of presaux. Having something robotic sticking out of your neck also immediately signposts yourself but that's an entire other can of worms (Shy what's with you and mechanical components in peoples necks huh?? HUH???)

In E1 he's abrasive towards MB after the face reveal and is frustrated, he's harsh and insistive - very rudely and firmly telling it that it can't leave the room yet for instance. However in E2 he has a different tone when he says "SecUnit can you please come and see me."

Yeah it's a real human thing to say, but it's a useless platitude to a robot that's only there to obey commands, right? This feels like the first subtle shift to me. It felt like a choice.

The Eye Contact scene - let's unpack it.

Gurathin "It's not a person its a tool" asks it politely to visit him, does a very uncomfortable (failed) dramatic chair spin, insists it sits on a chair, and then asks it a very personal question.

"I guess I don't know much about SecUnits.

What's it like, to be you?"

Rent free inside my head, chat.

Anyway - him asking for it to unmask itself - he knows what it looks like, he's got the video feed to look back at, but he wants to face it like a person would. Sitting also puts them both at eye level. It's a humanising thing. Suddenly, maybe, it's harder for Gura to separate it as a tool as much as he could before. Anthropomorphizing is something humans are already very good at. You put a real flesh and blood face on something? Oh No. Oh Boy.

The way he asks it "what's it like to be you?" felt really, really raw and genuine. It didn't feel like hate, or resentment, it felt like genuine curiosity and a desire for connection.

MB responds in kind - and it's such a beautifully short lived moment. But Gurathin is clearly conflicted in his position. He came in ready, and SWINGING, and now he has to reconcile with something he was thoroughly unprepared for.

He's testing the water when he insists on eye contact and is likely suspicious because MB doesn't seem to be acting how a secunit was likely pitched to him off-screen, and the way MB clearly is reluctant adds to this. With future episode context I think Gurathin clocked that there was something deeply wrong very early, but he was trying to genuinely suss out if it was a threat or not. He's not an idiot, he saw how it helped the crew, it's not done anything that's directly put the team in danger. But it's still wrong.

Later in the conversation he opens up about how differently Pres Alliance treat AI and constructs, compared to the corporation rim. He follows this up with "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

It's played off as a joke in relation to MB's inner monologue - but I genuinely think part of him was once again fishing for some kind of connection.

"Yeah I know. It's... weird to think about."

For Gurathin, he's not entirely human. His augments make him less human, they form a point of detachment.

Murderbot is not human, but it's behaviour seems slightly more human than what Gurathin expects of it.

Not to mention the myriad of small behavioural traits they share in common - but neither seem to have consciously recognised or clocked in each other yet.

My point being: the entire eye contact interrogation was as much Gurathin reaching for a connection as it was a warning and cautious appeal to reason and a hopeful connection point and it's all coming from a place of deep internal conflict. He's warmed up to it slightly now, part of him seeks something. If he was that concerned about it, he wouldn't have invited it into a room with him in private where he was vulnerable. He's of course unaware of how dangerous MB is, but if he really felt like he couldn't trust it to not kill him, he wouldn't have engaged with it all in that way I feel.

"If a secunit was malfunctioning in any way, it would be extremely dangerous for anyone involved--"

Gurathin looks intensely and deeply into it's face as he says "AND the secunit!"

This feels like a very direct personal appeal to a sense of self preservation. He's starting to pick up that this thing isn't just a normal robot. It doesn't just execute a task with no thought process. It does think and feel. And part of him is drawn to that fact.

All this is to say, I feel like this strongly signals to him being augmented against his will.

MB is a victim of circumstance in a lot of ways - it never asked to be created, it never asked to be sentient and it certainly never agreed to become an effective slave. I think Gurathin recognises this, initially, and is drawn to this fact because a part of him perhaps recognises it within himself (not consciouslly)

Now this all might be a huge projection - I'm writing a story and one of the characters, O'Byrne, is not-quite-human anymore after having something change her irreparably too and it's tech related.

But I really do feel like there's something to this. It'd make a lot of sense with Gurathin's deep comfortability with the company, his clear confliction around wanting to connect with MB but struggling to and being unsure of his feelings towards it.

I really loved episode 6 - so let's quickly talk about that before we wrap up.

MURDERBOT, UNMASKED:

I've avoided as many future episode clips as I can, but in one of the trailers I watched there's a line where Gurathin reveals to the crew that it calls itself Murderbot (self assigned name)

NOTABLY - he has not revealed this information to the crew in E6. Isn't that funny. Isn't that interesting.

He jacks into this thing, has a very intimate look inside it's head and memories, discloses a bunch of information to Bharadwaj but clearly doesn't disclose everything. During the E6 interrogation it's obvious Gurathin feels the most in control he's ever been - he's strutting around with full confidence, he's being purposefully antagonistic despite MB's attempts at showing it genuinely is on the teams side, and Gurathin believes its immobilised and that he has full power.

We all know that he had absolutely no power, at all, however.

MB at any point in time could have gotten out of that chair. It chose when to very carefully.

Given Gurathin believed he was in full control - why didn't he disclose more information about what he found in MB's head?

It would have certainly helped him argue his case. It certainly was a choice to not bring it up.

Again I think this comes down to his internal conflict. There are two wolves inside of you and one hates and distrusts the company and anything associated and one wants to believe the fucked up secunit might actually, genuinely, be something you can come to trust.

I think he's a deeply conflicted person seeking connection while feeling disconnected, and that he never had a choice in getting augments installed in him but he's dealing with it and has just accepted his lot in life - and being around people who love, respect and embrace him has helped with this, but he's still lacking something - and he's tip toeing around what that is in his attempts at reaching out to Mensah, and MB (and through these relationships he's perhaps seeking different things to help him feel more complete and less alone in a number of different ways.)

Anyway. I love him very dearly, Dastmalchian has done an absolutely killer performance in the role and I'm frothing at the mouth over what we're about to find out this coming ep drop.

Anyway - I hope this all makes sense. I've tried to proofread, but my brain is kind of fried from the seasonal flu right now (I'll be fine. Its just the middle of winter in australia and it's been really fucking cold where I live) - I hope I havent talked myself in circles. I'm really excited to come back to this when more information on his character has dropped in-episodes!

And if I'm wrong on my theory. Well. Guess I gotta just. Post something to Ao3 about it.

#Murderbot #Murderbot tv #shy talks #not art #*clanging pots and pans* COME GET YOUR META ANALYSIS #FROM A NON-BOOK READING FIRST TIME TV WATCHER #PSPSPSPSPSPS #to my friends that Ive messaged this to: this is an extended slightly cleaned up version. I've added MORE THOUGHTS

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suzukiblu · 8 months ago

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. . . anyway LISTEN I told 'yall November was gonna be "obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU" month, and I really did not INTEND to post my daily words for it again this year but also, like, fuck it, we ball. No promises I will update EVERY day this time around but again: fuck it, we ball. ( also uhhhhh I've been writing this fic kinda-sorta-semi out of order lately but there is still a significant chunk of word count I'd already written that I would've pre-gamed and posted YESTERDAY if I'd thought I was gonna be doing this, sooooo hope nobody minds us kickin' off the month with like an extra 5.9k on top of the 1.6k of obligatory sugar that I ACTUALLY wrote today behind this here cut? yes? no?? Bueller???? )

get sugared, Super-boytoy. Tim, you just . . . you just do your future-supervillain best over there, buddy. you just do what you can with yourself. prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“I wanted to,” Tim says again, and Kon glances away and bites his lip, turning the flowers by the stem again.

“It’s, uh–pretty,” he says, then clears his throat. “I mean, it’s–cool. Thanks.”

“If I can’t bring you fresh ones, well . . .” Tim shrugs. Kon glances back to him, and very briefly presses one of the orchid blooms against his own mouth. His face is still all flushed and his eyes are still a little soft, and it’s . . . it makes a picture, alright, even if it's not one Tim's specifically set up to take. Especially with the gold eyeliner and his blue eyes both matching the orchids.

Tim didn't plan that, obviously, but he thinks it makes up for the sapphire versus ruby thing.

“Um . . .” Kon trails off, biting his lip. Glances down at the orchids from under his lashes. It doesn't make him any less of a picture, for sure. “So, um–do you wanna see the ‘something nice’ I got?”

Tim blinks, immediately thinks of the most embarrassing option that Kon could possibly mean, and desperately tries to fight back a mortified flush at the idea. But, well–everything he can see Kon wearing is something he remembers buying him already, so . . .

Oh god, he needs his brain to shut up right now. Immediately. Right now and immediately and forever.

“Sure,” he says like a normal person, trying not to panic. “What is it?”

Kon, thank god, pulls a little rectangular package inexplicably–and inexpertly–wrapped in newspaper comics out of the same coat pocket he tucked the jewelry box in. There's plain white string tied around it in a bow.

Tim . . . blinks.

If he didn't know better, he'd think Kon had . . .

“I, um, got you something?” Kon says, and Tim stares blankly at the package. He–what? “For once, anyway. Well, I guess, uh, technically you got it for yourself, and actually this is kinda stupid maybe, you can literally just get yourself whatever you want whenever, obviously, but I just thought, uh–”

“You got me something?” Tim repeats in surprise. Kon turns pink and shoves the package at him. Tim is too bewildered not to take it.

“I thought it’d be, uh–fun,” he says, biting his lip and still very visibly blushing. “I mean–that we could have some fun with it. Y’know?”

Tim stares at the package for another moment, then looks up at Kon. Alright, this maybe isn’t exactly the vibe he was going for here in terms of who’s paying for what and who’s giving things to who, but . . . well, Kon apparently used his allowance for whatever this is, at least, which gives him a reason to have wanted the allowance, so . . . he can work with that, he figures. Like, it’s an “in” to work from; a step in the process.

He can’t tell what Kon’s gotten him from the shape of the package, though the edges are hard even though it doesn’t feel like it’s in a box or anything. “Have some fun” isn’t much of a clue, though he supposes it does imply something interactive. Maybe it’s a game of some kind, or–

Tim unties the bow and splits apart the clumsy seam of the comic-page wrapping paper with his thumb, tugging through its layers to reveal the package’s contents, and Kon flushes a little darker and watches him just a little bit nervously.

Tim doesn’t actually know what to say.

“I just thought, um, a real one’d probably take better pictures than a phone can,” Kon says sheepishly, slanting his eyes away and half-hiding his face behind the orchids. “I made sure the battery was charged and the guy at the store said it's got a lot of storage, I guess, so . . .”

“You got me a camera,” Tim says blankly, which is the most bewildering possible thing that Kon could have gotten him short of, like . . . no, it’s pretty much just the most bewildering possible thing that Kon could have gotten him. By far it’s the most bewildering possible thing that Kon could have gotten him.

“You like taking pictures, right?” Kon fidgets a little, then smiles just barely shyly as he glances back at him. Tim's heart skips a few beats. Or more than just “a few”, maybe. “So, um–I thought maybe we could go do that . . . somewhere. You know, after dinner.”

“Oh,” Tim says, blinking at him a little stupidly. It’s not a particularly good camera, honestly–like, it’s a perfectly functional model for casual amateur use and a decently reliable commercial brand, but he’s got much better ones that are all professional-quality. He hasn’t used any of them in a while and most of them are admittedly a few years old now, but . . . yeah, this was a hundred bucks max, if that, and his cheapest camera was over five hundred.

Note to self: raise Kon’s allowance.

Also, apparently now his favorite camera is the kind of camera civilian amateurs just take random family photos on. Apparently that’s a thing.

Tim really doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that Kon not only remembered something he mentioned having an interest in, Kon bothered to actually get him something he thought he’d have an interest in. That is really, really not the dynamic he’s been encouraging here, for one thing. And also, why even would Kon do that? Like–really?

“Thanks,” Tim says sincerely, turning the camera over in his hands and feeling incredibly embarrassed about all of this. “I love it.”

“Cool,” Kon says, biting his lip around a smile. His face is still a little pink and he looks all soft and pretty like that, especially with the flowers still in his hand. Tim really was not prepared for Kon having “soft and pretty” in his repertoire. Like, that was not a thing he ever expected to see from his cocky, crowing brawler of a teammate.

Kon’s only a brawler because he thinks he’s supposed to be, though, Tim’s pretty sure. Like–increasingly sure, at this point.

He really, really needs to figure out how to get Kon to tell Robin more about his TTK. Or, like . . . anything about it, apparently. Just literally any single thing, at this point.

“Thank you,” he says again, inspecting the camera assessingly and making note of all its functions and ports and the generally obvious basics. “We could go take some shots around downtown later, if you’re up for that?”

Kon turns bright red, and Tim doesn’t understand for about half a second before remembering–the last time Kon had talked to him about taking pictures, he’d offered . . .

Oh Jesus.

Tim is either incredibly stupid or–actually, he doesn’t even know. Lucky? Embarrassing? The dumbest moron alive who didn’t even realize he was being flirted with again? All those things and several even worse ones?

Kon had offered to let him take spicy pics of him the last time they'd talked about taking pictures, whatever “spicy” means to Kon–brash, impulsive, shameless Kon–and Tim’s the idiot whose first thought upon Kon following up that conversation by very literally giving him a camera was to go take pictures of fucking downtown.

He is the most useless “sugar daddy” to ever sugar.

Well, to be fair, it is Gotham downtown, so it’s very–

“I like taking pictures of streets and buildings,” he blurts belatedly, fumbling to sound like just the oblivious idiot that he is and not some kind of weird fucking perv who’s trying to get Kon arrested for public indecency. Jesus, he’s stupid. “And people-watching is interesting too. You know, stuff like that.”

“Oh,” Kon says, and looks several ways at once, including both a little relieved and a little disheartened, which . . . okay, Tim would literally die if they actually went somewhere to take spicy pics tonight, so is unfortunately unavoidable. He’s not trying to make Kon not feel–attractive or anything, but he needs at least twenty-four hours to make a plan and also two or three or seventeen contingency plans before . . . anything like that happens. Ever. Even in theory. “Um–yeah, sure. That sounds cool.”

“Cool,” Tim says, still desperately pretending to be an idiot. It’s not hard, on account of the fact that he very much is an idiot.

Kon pauses for a moment, then perks up a little, seeming to think of something, and asks–“When’s dinner?”

“Our reservation’s in forty-five minutes,” Tim says, double-checking the time on his phone just to be sure. “Well, forty-six. I figured that’d let us take our time walking over and maybe we could window-shop a little on the way.”

And also shop-shop a lot, if Kon gives him literally even the slightest indication that he wants or needs something. Just if it comes up or anything. That’s all.

Tim definitely did plan their route to the restaurant to cut straight through the middle of the downtown shopping district, either way.

“We could’ve just met there, dude,” Kon says wryly, but grins anyway, glancing down at the orchids in his hand again. “Forty-six minutes, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tim confirms.

“And you like taking pictures of streets and buildings?” Kon asks, his grin turning just a little bit sly. Tim frowns briefly in confusion, not sure what the grin’s about.

“Yeah,” he says. “Gotham has a lot of really interesting architecture and design. Like, it’s an old city, and one that’s been pretty resistant to updates in a lot of areas or just not had the money for those updates. So you get a lot of places with a lot of character and it’s basically the bastard child of gothic and art deco design with a side of industrial warehouse, depending on the part of town you’re in. Like, Crime Alley and the Diamond District have very different vibes, but they’re both very Gotham vibes, if you know what to look for. It’s–”

Kon is grinning really widely at him, for some reason. Tim realizes he’s rambling like a moron and turns red.

“Uh,” he says, repressing a wince. “Yes. Yeah. I like taking pictures of streets and buildings.”

“Cool,” Kon says, and then he carefully packs the orchids back into their box and it back into the gift bag and transfers the chocolates and jewelry back into it too, then grins even wider at him as he hooks the bag’s handles over his arm and into the crook of his elbow. “Don’t drop the camera, babe.”

“Wha–” Tim starts to say, and then Kon grabs him by the arm and pulls him into the closest alley, which is terrible survival instincts for Gotham, oh god, but before Tim can say anything about that Kon’s wrapped an arm around his waist just tight enough to just barely lift him off his feet and bolted straight up into the air with him. “Shit!”

Tim doesn’t drop the camera because he’s held onto cameras while falling off literal buildings before, but definitely only because of that. Muscle memory, or whatever. Also he’s been snatched off his feet by Bruce and Dick plenty of times and thrown off rooftops by multiple rogues and thugs over the years and these days gets regularly dragged around by Bart, all while holding very important things he could not afford to drop, so it’s not like either the sudden jolt or the effort to keep his grip on the camera are as disorienting as it otherwise would be. Just . . .

Ugh, Tim realizes, absolutely unimpressed with himself upon realizing that the breathless feeling he’s having right now is not actually related to the swift and sudden increase in altitude, but is actually just because it’s Kon holding him.

He is an idiot, isn’t he, he reflects resignedly. Just an actual literal idiot.

Jesus.

“Whatcha think?” Kon asks with a grin as he comes to a stop in mid-air with him. He stops very suddenly, but Tim notices a distinct lack of jarring with said stop, which implies Kon’s got his TTK around him again and probably completely around him, which means–

Oh god, Tim thinks, and very quickly makes himself stop thinking about that.

“It’s cool,” he says, because a normal civilian would think flying was something interesting and unusual, but it’s hard to act too excited about a move Kon probably pulls on literally everyone he–

“I meant the view, babe!” Kon says with a laugh, and Tim . . . blinks.

And then he looks down.

They’re hovering a few thousand feet up, and downtown is already lit up bright in the early evening gloom. And Kon . . .

“Streets and buildings, as ordered,” Kon says, grinning wider with a smug, cocky look on his face.

Oh no, he’s hot, Tim realizes with dread, and then blinks again. Stares down at the city below, past the whipping wind and down into the busy streets and the bright, dazzling lights cutting through the murky gloom. He’s seen Gotham like this a thousand times, obviously, because of course he has–he’s been climbing these rooftops for years, and every night he runs across and swings back and forth between them and utterly fails to learn how to do more than a double backflip.

One day, he promises himself distractedly, and then looks back at Kon.

He’s seen Gotham like this a thousand times, but never just because someone thought he’d like it. Like–not like this, he means. Dick's shown him a few particularly special or exhilarating views over the years, yeah, but . . . definitely not like this. Not for a reason like this.

And definitely not while peacocking all smug and pretty dressed up in clothes that he bought him and holding him close enough to kiss.

Kon’s expression turns a little sheepish; a little soft. Not quite shy, but . . .

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice pitched a little quieter, and Tim has the much worse and even more dread-inducing realization of oh no, he’s CUTE.

He swallows, briefly, and feels his face burn.

“Yeah,” he manages in an almost-normal voice. “I like it.”

Kon grins at him, brighter than any city light, and Tim barely keeps himself from dropping the camera after all.

“Thanks,” he attempts awkwardly, making himself focus on the camera and resisting the urge to take an immediate shot of that city-light grin.

Then he takes one anyway, because of course he does. Kon laughs in surprise, then makes a face at him teasingly.

“Hey, you can buy this face in any cheap gossip rag, focus on the fun stuff,” he jokes, jerking his head towards the city below. Tim looks searchingly at him for a moment, and then for obvious reasons snaps another picture. Kon flushes a little again. They probably won't even come out from this close, but . . .

“You’re the most fun I’ve had all week,” Tim says, which is definitely too honest but clearly necessary to make a point of saying. Kon turns redder, ducking his head and grinning around his bitten lip.

“You don’t have to say that kind of thing to me, man,” he says, and it comes across almost like a reflex. Tim hates . . . yeah, just literally everybody Kon’s ever known in his whole entire life, actually? Like, pretty much everybody? Bart gets a break because he grew up alone in VR and is therefore terrible with people and the girls get a break because they haven’t known any of them that long, but everybody else can just take a long walk off a short gutter, in Tim’s opinion.

Especially any “everybody” from Cadmus.

Or Metropolis, at this point.

“I’m not saying anything I don’t want to say,” he says simply, and goes to the effort to frame a few shots of the skyline so Kon will know he appreciates . . . well, not the angle, exactly, but the thought.

Technically he is usually on top of a building when he’s doing this, so the angle is actually a slightly different one than he’s used to–not that he’s been taking photos lately, just–not the point, really. Kon got him a camera and brought him up here because he clearly thought he’d like it, and damned if Tim is gonna do anything to make him think he doesn’t.

He has better cameras for things like this–aerial shots and night photography and long-distance and the like, and better cameras for closeup candids too–but he already knows these pictures are all going to be exactly what he wants them to be, even the ones that don't come out.

Or especially those, maybe.

He's not sure how he'd explain that feeling to someone else.

Kon flies them around, staying out of sight behind the light pollution and among the shadows of the buildings, and Tim takes . . . a lot more pictures than he needs to, actually. He was just trying to make sure Kon knew he appreciated him thinking of him, but actually . . .

Well.

It’s fun, that’s all.

It’s . . . been a while, kinda, since he got to spend this much time on just photography and nothing else. Or–any time at all, really.

Not that this is nothing else, obviously, given that Kon’s holding him and it is very, very hard to concentrate on anything besides that, but it is the kind of a view a standard civilian never gets, and it’s kind of nice to be flying for non-work-related reasons, for once. Like . . . novel, he guesses. A different experience.

Technically he and Dick do “fly” together just for fun, sometimes, but that’s different. Like–so many kinds of different. It helps them in their work–keeps the rooftops familiar and them both in shape and in sync–but he can’t take photos when he’s trying to keep up with Nightwing across the rooftops of Gotham, and it’s not like Dick’s carrying him either.

Also, it’s much less flustering and difficult to concentrate through, because again, Dick is not carrying him, and also Dick doesn’t do things like wear clothes he bought or do his eyeliner and paint his nails for him. Or, uh . . . anything like that.

Also, definitely the “spicy pics” thing is not at all a thing, with Dick. Like, not even slightly, in any way whatsoever. And they’ve also never made out in a changing room or the back of a planetarium or–

Look, there’s a lot of ways it’s different, okay?

A lot of ways.

“I'm not boring you, am I?” Tim asks a little bit sheepishly as Kon lands them on a ledge just behind one of the bigger gargoyles, tucked in tight in the shadows between it and the building it's perched on. “We can probably still fit in some window-shopping before dinner, if you want.”

“Oh my god, dude, I promise we can do things you don't have to spend money on,” Kon says with a laugh as he lets him down on the ledge. “Though if it helps you technically did spend money on this, given how I got the camera and all.”

“It's your allowance,” Tim says, because he wants to make sure Kon actually gets that. “You can spend it however you want.”

“Well, I spent it how I wanted,” Kon says, and then steps closer into his space with a smile. Tim ends up sitting on the gargoyle’s back as Kon leans down to kiss him, and it's not like he's never kissed anyone while perched on a gargoyle before, but somehow it feels like something new anyway. New and electric, bright and easy and smeared with the city lights and thrilling in its shadows, and–

Kon breaks off the kiss, though he keeps a hand on Tim’s arm, probably to make sure the squishy untrained civilian won't accidentally fall off the ledge and get splatted on the concrete. Tim barely holds himself back from chasing his mouth.

“It's cool, anyway. Um, doing stuff you're into with you, I mean,” Kon says, looking a little soft and almost-shy again, and never mind, Tim not only needs to chase his mouth, he needs to set up a damn manhunt for it. “You're real cute when you get excited, man. I mean, uh–just–”

The manhunt is going to require a very significant budget, Tim notes.

Then he kisses him again, obviously. Kon melts down into it–into him, really–and wraps his arms around his neck, and Tim feels several kind of ways about it. Admittedly, it's the easier option with him sitting on the gargoyle and Kon leaning over him, but Kon's put his arms around his neck a couple of times now, and, well . . .

That's just not something he would've expected from him, he guesses. Not “cool” or masculine or badass or . . . whatever, exactly, Kon thinks he's supposed to be.

So Tim . . . likes it, he thinks, that Kon doesn't seem to think he needs to be like that around Tim Drake.

Robin’s sure as hell never seen Kon in eyeliner.

Robin's loss, Tim thinks.

. . . maybe he's compartmentalizing a little too much these days, but still.

Kon makes a very, very soft little sound between their mouths and then laughs, and Tim promises himself he won't stop at Gotham: he'll take over Metropolis for this asshole one day. Even if that means putting up with Lex Luthor and Superman. And also, like . . . everything about Metropolis.

He'll figure it out. Supervillainy is still a long-term plan, so he's got time.

Anyway, if he gives it to Kon after he takes it over he won't have to put up with it, so it's whatever. Sugar daddies do that kind of thing, right? Get their sugar-ees a city?

. . . okay, definitely not. Like, very definitely not.

“Okay date idea, then?” Kon asks as he leans back a bit and does a very bad job of biting back a smile, his face a little flushed and arms squeezing a little tighter around his neck.

Tim will get him Metropolis if it kills Lex Luthor.

“Very okay,” he says, smiling back at him. Kon grins, his face turning just a little bit redder, and then kisses him again. Tim has absolutely no complaints about that. Ever. He can’t even imagine a complaint he’d have about that, in fact.

Worst case scenario, he’ll get them in at another restaurant if they miss their reservation.

He really doesn't know what else he's supposed to do about how easy Kon blushes.

They definitely spend too long making out against the gargoyle and Tim definitely lets himself get too riled up during it–and does not think about tactile telekinesis or any kind of related passive perception while he does–but by the time he’s the one pressing Kon back against the building, he really doesn’t care anymore.

The fact Kon is even willing to let him do that when there is literally no way Tim could ever actually pin him anywhere without a way to sabotage his powers is . . . really, really distracting. Just–so distracting.

Jesus, Tim thinks, breaking off just long enough to catch his breath for a moment. Kon pants softly against his mouth, which sabotages that even worse than kryptonite would sabotage TTK.

Jesus, Tim thinks again, and then crushes their mouths back together.

He doesn’t need to breathe that often.

Kon makes a softer, breathier sound this time, and Tim does not let himself make it weird by letting his hands wander anywhere outside of second base territory. Frankly he’s not sure second base territory isn’t him making it weird, but Kon started it, so hopefully it’s not? Like–logically it’d follow that Kon wouldn’t touch him anywhere he doesn’t want touched, right?

Well–hopefully, anyway.

The air feels tight, Tim notices suddenly, like the feeling of sinking into deeper pressure when underwater but all at once, and then realizes–oh.

Uh.

Okay.

“Um,” he says, and immediately the feeling of pressure vanishes as Kon jerks back and claps a hand over his own mouth. Which is mostly him pushing Tim back, given their position, but he does crack the brickwork behind him a little.

Whoops, Tim thinks.

“Sorry!” Kon blurts. “Sorry, sorry, that’s–sorry! I just, uh–got a little too into it. I won’t do it again.”

“It’s really not a problem,” Tim says, with absolutely no idea how to take the idea of Kon getting “a little too into it” when kissing him, or the idea that getting a little too into it apparently involves getting wrapped up in TTK a lot more noticeably than making him bulletproof at the museum did. “I mean–it didn’t hurt or anything, I was just surprised.”

“I–yeah, I know, it’s just–weird,” Kon says, still looking mortified. “So–sorry. That’s all.”

“I don’t mind weird,” Tim says, because actually the idea of being temporarily at least as invulnerable as Kon is while making out with him implies being able to devote a lot more attention to said making out, as opposed to keeping half an eye out for snipers or rogues or random rooftop criminals. Not that he’d stop paying any attention to that, obviously, just–yeah. Well.

It’s a little tempting, that’s all.

“Uh–you don’t?” Kon bites his lip, still looking a little embarrassed.

“It kind of just felt like scuba-diving, but with less equipment involved,” Tim says with a little shrug, keeping his tone light because “seriously, you have no idea how much I’d like to not be compulsively keeping an eye out for snipers right now” isn’t a very “civilian” thing to say. “And I’m not about to complain about you enjoying kissing me that much either way.”

“Oh,” Kon says, and flushes a little. “Uh–really?”

“Really,” Tim says, smiling at him again and tugging gently at the lapels of his jacket to pull himself back in. Kon blushes, and grins, and meets him halfway for the kiss. The sensation of pressure wraps him up again, gentle but undeniable, and Tim feels several kinds of ways about it.

Maybe even a little bit safe, or at least as safe as anyplace outside the Batcave ever gets.

Tim knows there’s no such thing as being perfectly, completely safe, but getting all wrapped up in Kon’s TTK and kissed for it makes it hard to remember that.

Very, very hard.

They spend a much longer time making out this time. Tim is vaguely aware that they still have a dinner reservation to make, but . . . well, he did pad the time to allow for window-shopping, so even with the time they spent flying around taking pictures, it's probably fine?

Yeah, no, they’ve definitely missed their reservation by now. Probably way past missed it. Just so, so far past missed it.

Weirdly, Tim doesn’t care as much as he should, even though he really prefers when things go to plan and also needs Kon to feel appreciated and like he got properly spoiled and taken someplace nice. He’s going to have to figure out something else on the fly, though, because he really does needs Kon to feel appreciated and also needs the excuse to get him more used to getting money spent on him and–

Tim remembers that he needs to breathe more than he's currently breathing and breaks off the kiss. Kon half-chases his mouth with his own, audibly breathless himself. Tim is not equipped to handle Kon breathless.

That might actually be more flattering than the TTK thing. Or, uh–flustering, maybe.

Both, maybe. “Both” is probably accurate here.

Jesus, Tim does not know what he did to deserve Kon getting breathless over something he’s done to him, much less all soft and pretty and–

They have definitely, definitely missed their reservation. Usually Tim has a better sense of time than that, but usually Tim doesn’t have Kon wanting to make out on a Gotham rooftop with him, Like, he thinks he can forgive himself a little bit of disorientation on that one, considering.

. . . as long as Bruce never finds out he messed up that bad, anyway. Because Bruce would definitely not like hearing he’d messed up that bad, TTK or not.

Probably especially involving the TTK, actually. Probably Bruce would not take “yeah I let Superboy get distracted enough to unconsciously wrap me up in his Kryptonian-level superpowers while he wasn’t in full control of them and actually, like, encouraged it, kinda? like, explicitly encouraged it, actually”.

Yeah, Bruce would not like that.

“Um,” Tim says, and clears his throat a little awkwardly. “So, uh–hungry yet?”

“You could say that,” Kon murmurs, then flashes him a sharp, wicked grin with his eyes slit open just enough to fix on Tim’s mouth. Tim spares a moment to compartmentalize just enough to not lose his mind about that, then makes the mistake of licking his lips anxiously, sees Kon’s hooded eyes go hot at the sight, and immediately fails to not lose his mind.

“Uh,” he manages, and then decides they don’t really need to get dinner just yet and maybe they could just, like–no, no, Kon is definitely not getting enough calories from that stupid barely-legal underground lab’s stupid definitely-not-health-code-compliant cafeteria, Tim is not gonna be a bad enough date to not get his date a respectable amount of calories. That is just not a thing that he’s gonna, like . . . thing, as a thing. Or whatever.

Not like Superman’s been bringing Kon casseroles or anything, the prick.

“Um, I–uh, might’ve let us get a little too distracted, sorry,” Tim attempts after a moment of mental fumbling, making himself push back from Kon a little and pulling his phone out to check the time. Yeah, they have definitely missed their reservation. Very, very thoroughly have they missed it.

Dammit. That is not Bat-quality situational awareness.

“You think that was just you, man?” Kon asks with a little laugh, just barely ducking his head and biting his lip. It is . . . very distracting. As is his face. And his hands, which are still loosely on Tim’s back, and his TTK, which is still loosely . . . basically everywhere, yeah. Just–way too many places for Tim to be rational about, basically.

“I mean, I was the one who made the reservation,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly as he does his best to at least fake rationality. “So, uh, I should’ve been paying attention to the time. I can see if there’s someplace we can still slip in, it’s a little last-minute for a Friday but–”

Kon kisses him again.

Tim was saying something, he’s reasonably sure, but he couldn’t remember whatever it was with a gun to his head. A gun to his head while out of his suit and without Kon on the same floor as him, to be clear.

Kon leans back and grins at him, all bright and pretty and cutting right through the shade and shadows of Gotham like a spotlight-signal lighting up the cloud cover. Tim remains vaguely aware of the fact that he was doing . . . something. At some point. In theory.

God, Kon is so pretty. So, so pretty. And everything he’s wearing is something Tim bought him, coat and clothes and jewelry and all. Just–all of it, as far as he can see.

Tim does not let himself think about what else Kon might or might not be wearing right now. Just–that way lies madness, and also Kon not getting a decent dinner and decent spoiling.

. . . there’s probably some other ways Tim could spoil him, technically, if he just–

Tim does not finish that thought.

“You’re so fucking cute, daddy,” Kon says, still grinning just as signal-bright and pretty at him. Tim is not prepared for literally any of that and nearly melts right off the ledge into an incoherent mess of street pizza.

“Uh,” he says, swallowing roughly. “We should–are you hungry yet?”

Kon laughs, for some reason. Tim very quietly and carefully burns alive, and then Kon floats up a few inches and ducks around him and back out into the open air, leaning down to grin at him and reaching to–probably he’s intending to pick him up again, Tim’s brain is vaguely aware, but the rest of Tim is thinking more like hurr durr pretty boy, which is definitely why he ends up reaching up to cup Kon’s face in his hands and tug him down for another kiss, pushing himself up on his toes on the edge of the ledge to reach him easier. Kon makes a soft, breathless little noise, then laughs in delight and kisses him back.

The wind is cold and sharp and the evening sky is all heavy dark clouds and hazy light pollution and Kon’s wearing clothes Tim bought him, some of which Tim even suggested to him, and he put on makeup and painted his nails to come see him and he’s got a gift bag of little things Tim picked out for him hooked in the crook of his elbow and he liked all of those little things, and they’ve not only missed but obliterated their dinner reservation, and they’re half-on a ledge high above the street and kissing and Kon is just so pretty.

And Kon also bought him a camera and brought him up here because he thought he’d like it and called him “cute”, which are all facts that Tim is definitely going to have to compartmentalize to fully process later, or else he really will melt right off the stupid ledge.

The spicy pics thing, also, is a thing. The spicy pics thing is, uh–very much a thing.

Tim is maybe just never gonna process that particular fact in, like, self-defense.

Ever.

. . . god, he’s going to have to process that fact at some point, isn’t he. God. That is . . . that is a whole thing that he is going to have to do. Like, effectively and well and throughly.

Maybe it’s not too late to just go supervillain right now, actually. Maybe Kon would be open to, like, minionhood or something. Lots of supervillains put their minions up in their lairs, right? That’s totally a thing, isn’t it?

Ugh, no, Kon deserves a place he can really feel like is his place and also he has not laid near enough groundwork to get Dick to switch sides. Like, Alfred would, obviously. Alfred will be on-board the second the rusty crowbar and shrapnel bomb plan comes up and will probably have useful notes to add. But Dick is gonna require some more long-term finessing and Babs definitely won’t come if Dick doesn’t and–

Kon laughs into the kiss and cups Tim’s face in return, which is incredibly distracting, and then squishes his face, which is incredibly annoying.

“Hey!” Tim sputters, and Kon laughs again and leans back just enough to grin at him.

“You are so weird, dude,” he says. “I can literally hear you thinking.”

“. . . that’s not me being detached from the situation, I–” Tim starts, unable to repress a wince, and Kon just grins wider, grabs his wrists, and tugs him off the ledge and–oh, okay, that’s a weird sensation, Tim notes, because gravity does absolutely nothing at all to him until Kon’s pulled him into his arms and wrapped him up in them again all easy and secure. .

So that’s . . . yeah, no, “incredibly distracting” isn’t actually gonna cover this one, considering.

“Uh,” he says, blinking a couple of times. That. That is definitely not how Superboy holds Robin.

Frick.

“I just gotta keep you better attached, right, daddy?” Kon purrs–really purrs, his chest briefly vibrating against Tim’s–and then grins wider at him again with eyes that are, unfortunately, literally goddamn sparkling right now–thanks, gold eyeliner, Tim didn’t need those higher thought processes–before giving him another quick little kiss that Tim actually would like to turn into a four-hour make-out session and maybe also a sleepover and–

God he needs to remember how to compartmentalize. He really, really needs to remember how to compartmentalize.

Also he needs to kiss Kon’s literal friggin’ brains out, the smug friggin’ asshole.

Mid-air makeouts are the worst possible idea Kon has ever inflicted on him and Tim would sooner fight Killer Croc without his utility belt than point that fact out to him.

He winds his arms around Kon’s neck and kisses him back, and Kon makes this tiny little–not pleased, not content, but actually happy-sounding noise and kisses back harder. Tim feels gravity stop being a particularly relevant concern again and feels like he’s floating in deep, heavy water but also like he’s the lightest he’s ever been in his life, and it is . . . it is a feeling, alright.

Kon is a menace. Kon is a problem.

Kon is so, so damn cute.

“You are an actual literal brat, baby,” Tim mutters slightly more feelingly than he means to, and Kon’s laugh comes out a little breathier this time and he ducks his head to the side and his face flushes and–

No. Nope. No. Tim needs to not learn anything new about himself or Kon tonight, or, worse, anything about him and Kon. That is just not a thing he has time for in his schedule. He’s got to fit in an anxiety attack and three full files’ worth of casework this weekend, for one, plus his science presentation and that make-up book report, and also come up with someplace else nice enough to take Kon to dinner tonight.

“So, uh–dinner?” he says very quickly–self-defense, again–and Kon bites his lower lip and grins around it, his face still turned just a little bit away. Tim pretends they’re not effectively pressed together from knee to neck right now. Pretends valiantly. “I mean–um, if you’re hungry yet.”

Kon laughs, ducking his head lower, the dangling gold teardrop hanging from his ear gleaming warmly in the murky electric city light. Tim goes through multiple stages of emotional processing to keep himself from kissing his neck right behind that earring and completely forgetting about not only dinner, but all his homework and casework and even the anxiety attack.

Does Kon laugh this much around Robin?

Tim really doesn’t feel like he does.

He also doesn’t tell Robin very important things like the fact that he can make other people bulletproof on a whim and map out an entire mall just by standing in it, which is objectively much worse and potentially dangerous a thing not to do, but also Tim is already positive he’s going to miss that laugh like crazy every time he sees Kon with the mask on.

Robin doesn’t get to see Kon like this at all, even when he lets the asshole eat both stupid boxes of cinnamon bread.

“Dinner, yeah,” Kon says, grinning again and then taking off backwards across the sky, apparently unconcerned about their chances of hitting a building. Tim’s not really in a proper carry so much as just stretched out against him and wrapped up in his arms, but given the nature of how Kon’s powers work, an actual carry is obivously not really a concern, so . . .

Oh, Tim realizes as Kon tips back just enough to be reclining in the air, still flying without any apparent care or concern for the aerodynamics of the situation or anything but staying more or less out of view of anyone on the street below.

Avoiding the street view is good.

The part where now he’s essentially laying on top of Kon is . . . less good, maybe.

Maybe he won’t have to convince Kon to go supervillain, at least. Maybe Kon’s already there.

“Where to, daddy?” Kon asks with a smirk, keeping one arm looped around Tim’s waist and folding the other behind his own head like he’s laying out in a lounge chair on the beach. Tim thinks longingly of smothering him and also of getting him to take down his TTK so he could bite a hickey or five into his neck. Maybe six. He could probably do six.

Or seven.

“Northeast towards Broad Street,” Tim says as he tips his head in the appropriate direction, then pulls up the camera again and snaps a quick shot of Kon’s smug smirk, which immediately breaks into a surprised laugh as the other flushes again.

He takes a picture of that too.

“You flirtin’ again already, man?” Kon asks with a sheepish little laugh, like the bastard has any room to talk.

“The position’s pretty good for it, that’s all,” Tim says with a level of casualness he absolutely does not feel. Kon flushes darker and bites his lip again, still just barely grinning. Tim, ethically, has no choice but to take a few more pictures.

“Oh my god,” Kon says, laughing again and unfolding the arm he has tucked behind his head to hide his eyes behind instead. Tim is maybe a little bit too aware of the line of his throat under the neck of his shirt, without his eyes and the sparkle there to be distracting him into a useless stupid mushbrained might-as-well-be-a-civilian, observationally-speaking. “I’m not a building, you absolute nerd!”

“I said I liked people-watching too, didn’t I?” Tim points out reasonably, though mostly his brain’s occupied with the question of–“Hey. If you let down your TTK a bit, could a baseline-DNA human give you a hickey? Like, is that physically possible, or are you too Kryptonian for that?”

“Oh my god,” Kon repeats, laughing harder even as the flush on his face spreads down his neck. Tim wonders how warm that might feel under his mouth. “I, uh–dunno, man. Maybe?”

Tim silently resolves himself to finding literally any excuse to conduct that experiment and moves a hand to cup the side of Kon’s throat, eyeing it consideringly. Kon makes a slightly weird noise and visibly swallows, and Tim belatedly realizes that he’s paid literally no attention whatsoever to whether or not they’re about to hit a building or a flagpole or a roof this entire flight; he just assumed Kon had it handled. The Bat-paranoia kicks in and he glances up reflexively, and just as reflexively slides the pad of his thumb across Kon’s pulse. Their flight path is clear; they’re high enough to avoid most of the buildings in this area. Definitely still gonna need to keep an eye out for radio towers and billboards, but . . .

Kon swallows again, the gesture a little bit rough this time. Tim feels the other’s throat flex against his palm. That sure is . . . that sure is a thing that Tim feels right there. That invulnerable throat flexing right there against his palm, and maybe not necessarily having to be invulnerable, if Kon didn’t want it to be.

. . . . . . he already said he didn’t have time to learn anything new about himself tonight, dammit.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon

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