#apparently i have a type and that type is assassins with sexy voices

[fiannans]

Me after hearing a clip of Lucanis’ VA talking:

Source: x

[omg-foreverfilledwithweird-posts]

A Siren Song

Pairing: Robert Dubois/ Bloodsport x Reader

A/N: so I just finished watching the new Suicide Squad for the second time and I’m even more obsessed now than I was the first time I watched it. It’s a brilliant film with actually good humor, a non-sexualizing and actually empowering view on Harley Quinn (that leg scene?? y'all-), the rats?? Rat-catcher 2?? THE SHARK?? FLAG?? Who looked really good in this movie, he might be another contender for a story as well as Harley Quinn so lmk ;) but Bloodsport immediately piqued my interest because it’s Idris Elba and he’s gorgeous, I loved the complexities of his character and I want to write for him and no one else has done it yet?? so shoutout to @honey-im-emotional​​ for the support and push to do it! also love The Bodyguard movie, helped with the inspo <3 and i’m so sorry all of my stories are similar but I HAVE A TYPE enjoy and feedback is always appreciated loves and there will be SPOILERS so be warned, also if you want a Harley one next lmk ;) (it’s so long I’m so sorry lol)

Summary: You’re a highly targeted member of the royal family, the last in your line. Bloodsport is hired to be your bodyguard to both watch and assassinate the men after you. He believes it’s below his pay-grade, but reluctantly agrees, doing so to the best of his abilities. But the closeness brings more intimacy than you two expected, and sparks fly.

Warnings: foul language, sexual content, smut, choking, light bdsm, fluffy fluff, dirty dancing, dirty talk, violence and bad guys getting murdered, mentions of Harley x Reader (y’all sexy dance and kiss), reader likes women, dom! Bloodsport, age gap, alcohol consumption, jealousy, heavy kissing, slight angst, just a good time honestly

Word Count: 3,825

You dangle from the ceiling with your aerial silk, fitting your leg in the loop you’ve created, and dangling upside down. The rope wraps around your waist as you hang gracefully from your marble walls, flying. Your friend Harley Quinn taught you how to do this years ago, it now being your favorite form of exercise and relaxation when you need a moment to clear your head. 

As you lightly spin, twirling and dancing in the air with your chandelier reflecting light everywhere, a dazzling fairy floating in a sea of stars. You hear footsteps approach and move to hang upside down, facing towards the grand door. Robert Dubois, a.k.a Bloodsport, walks forward to stand directly in front of you. 

You have known him a few weeks or so now, him having to watch your every move and tracking down your family’s killers. He stands and meets your eyes as you dangle, hair falling below you.

“Hi,” you giggle, face flushed with heat. “I probably look ridiculous right now.”

He composes himself so he doesn’t crack a smile, but you see his lips twitch when he speaks, “No, Mrs. y/l/n.”

“I have a first name, you know,” you grin widely. “I’m younger than you, which hardly warrants such a professional title.”

“My apologies, y/n,” he fixes himself.

“It’s alright,” you ease, filling him with a sense of softness he hasn’t felt in a long time. You flip and land on your feet, letting go of your silks. 

You don’t notice as his eyes glaze over your body in your sports bra and shorts, something his cold, calculated stare should never succumb to, but he does anyway and he kicks himself for doing it. You’re his client and should therefore remain as such, no conflict of interest or thoughts other than to protect. He didn’t want this job, hell, he still doesn’t know why he said yes. Maybe it was the money. Or maybe it was upon seeing you that first time, in that star-studded gown the night of a charity gala you were attending, the way the diamond littered fabric hung over your figure, absolutely dazzled. The way you looked at him and smiled, like you were used to with all the other nobles and adoring fans. But he let himself believe it was different.

He can’t do that anymore, however, because he can’t allow for any complications. And falling for his boss is certainly a complication. 

You look at him and your eyes widen with realization, “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me cover up.”

You grab a tee shirt and toss it over your exercise clothes. He looks down as you do so and clears his throat. This brings a small smile to your face.  

“You called me in here,” he gestures to the necklace charm hanging around your neck that you can squeeze and send an instant distress signal whenever you need it. “What can I do for you, y/n?”

“Wanted you to spot me,” you tease, a smile overtaking your delicate features. You have a sort of stunning beauty about you that takes him by surprise every time he lays eyes on you. Which is often. You lay on your yoga mat and sit up straight with that same damned smile. 

“I’m here to do a job, y/n,” he says, his deep, honeyed voice coating the way he says your name like heat to sugar. “Not aid you in your workout routine.”

“What? Your assassin training didn’t include sit ups?” you smile, tongue in cheek.

“No, but if you need a way to kill a man with a book,” he presses a foot over both of yours as you begin to do sit ups. “Then I’m your man.”

“Yeah, you and John Wick,” you breathe out with a laugh. “And shouldn’t you be in here watching me already? Not by the door?”

“This room has no windows and no other door or entrance besides the one I was standing by. I thought you would want privacy,” he averts your gaze. “I’m sure it’s a hard thing to come by these days for a woman like yourself.”

You stop what you’re doing and look up at him, blinking, “Well, you’d be right,” you tuck your hair back. “So thank you.”

He meets your eyes, bordering on a smile, “You’re welcome.”

“Is that a smile I see?” you chuckle.

The smile shines, “It was a diversion. And you failed.”

You laugh loudly, “Will the next diversion be an actual laugh?”

“Wouldn’t be a proper diversion if you knew what it was.”

You tap his feet so he’ll get the hint and let you up. You rise to your feet and dust yourself up, “I appreciate your spotting.” You press a hand to his chest and hum. Warmth radiates from your palm and he inhales sharply. “For someone who wasn’t trained, you sure are a fast learner.”

He looks at your hand and back to your eyes, heat sprouting from where your hand touches. His hand flexes at his side as he looks around the room, to the door, seeing if it’s closed. 

“I-” he cocks an eyebrow then settles. “I think I should go.”

He watches you look at him with wounded eyes, brow lowered, you open your mouth then close it. 

You nod, moving away from him, “Right.”

You move to walk away when he stops you, mouth by your ear, voice dropping an octave when he whispers, “Just so you know-” you tilt your head up almost instinctively to hear him better. “-my assassin training did include reminding people who they are when they’ve forgotten their place.”

You look up at him fully now, “You work for me, remember?”

“I work for money. And you didn’t hire me. I was employed by Mrs. Waller to keep you alive,” he cocks his head slightly. 

“So it would be frowned upon by her when you’re unable to walk if you touch me like that again.”

You couldn’t believe he had just said that. Your eyes widen and your cheeks once again heat up, blushing. Your chest gets hot when he doesn’t break the stare like he’s calling your bluff, and fuck, did he do just that. You turn away from him.

You can hear the smile in his voice, “That’s what I thought.”

~~~

“Robert said that!?” Harley exclaims, eyes wide. Her jaw is dropped as she does her mascara aggressively in the mirror. “He’s usually so...”

You tug down your tiny halter top over your head, your bright, flattering makeup complementing the colorful swirling pattern, “An empty void with no emotion?”

She nods emphatically, agreeing, “Exactly! I had no idea he had it in him?” she raises her brow and smooths down her leather black and red dress, “Or that he wanted to put it in you-”

You slap her arm, chastising, “You don’t know that. It might have been a threat to actually paralyze me in a very not sexual way.”

“I say both are arousing,” she shrugs, platinum curls bouncing.

You roll your eyes with a small smile aimed at the floor, “Anyway-” you slip a belt through your tight jeans, hitting at your waist when you cinch it in. “We should get going if we want to get to the club on time.”

She pauses. “Y/n. Are you sure we should be doing this?”

You do a double take, “You’re telling me that we shouldn’t sneak out and have a good time?”

“I know the irony is apparent,” she looks at you with a knowing stare. “But not if it means you’re in danger. Which you are.”

“I know,” you frown. “But I’ve been locked in this house for months, I miss going out and having a life. I’m tired of being coddled.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she sighs, looking past herself in the mirror to flash me a sympathetic smile. She thinks for a beat and finally spins around, “Alright, screw it, doll, let’s go paint the town.”

You buzz with excitement, grinning, “Yay! Thank you, thank you! I wonder who will be djaying...” you trail off. 

Harley’s face falls and her mouth goes in a solid, straight line, looking past your shoulder, “I don’t think anyone will be.”

You laugh, completely oblivious, “Of course there will be. There has to be music. Dancing in silence would be pretty fucking awkward.”

“This moment is pretty fucking awkward.”

“What do you mean?”

A deep, irritated voice sounds off behind you, “Because you’re not going.”

You jump out of your skin, “Shit, Robert! You scared the hell out of me!”

“You’re not going to that club,” he folds his arms over his chest. You look over him and his casual, night wear: a loose tee and low hanging joggers. You almost wipe your mouth from salivating. Your outfit elicits the same reaction.

You pinch your eyebrows together, “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Yes, I can. I’m tasked with protecting you.”

“Yeah. And nowhere on your job description does it say ‘become my parent’. There’s not an opening now just because I don’t have one. I am a grown ass woman and I have been a prisoner in my own home. The same home where...” you pause, a lump in your throat at the reminder of your family’s passing. You shake it off, “I’m just tired. I want a piece of my life back. You can either stay here or come. Either way I’m going.”

He gives you a quick once over and contemplates his options before dropping his arms to his sides and letting out a long exhale.

“Fine.”

You somewhat relax at his defeated tone, “Fine, what?”

He relents, “You can go, but I’m coming with you. But if anything happens to you, I’m not to be blamed. I will leave your ass in that club.”

You grin and jump up to give him a tight hug around the neck. He stiffens before slowly rubbing your back. You sink into his embrace, feeling like you were floating in water, now above the surface as he brings you back to oxygen. Harley smiles at the exchange and she winks theatrically. 

He glares. 

It’s not long before you three arrive at the club, music blaring and colorful lights flashing over the crowded floors. From his stare and intimidating aura, the club staff thought he was a bouncer and let you all in immediately. But before he was roped into working, the three of you bee-lined to the bar. 

“The prettiest and strongest drink ya got, sugar,” Harley smiles at the pretty bartender.

“And what if that’s me?” she responds, ebony hair falling onto one shoulder.

“Then I’ll have to drink you later,” Harley gives her a flirty once over and you roll your eyes.

The bartender grins and gestures towards me for my order, I answer quickly, “Scotch on the rocks.”

Robert looks at you, poorly covering his shocked expression. “Really?”

“Yeah, why?” you look up at him.

“Didn’t peg you for a straight liquor type, Ms. y/l/n,” he finally lets his hidden laugh show through, butterflies erupting in your chest. The diversion definitely worked, whatever you were thinking about before this has immediately left you.

“Then this is going to be the first surprise of many tonight, Mr. Dubois,” you return the smug look as he orders the same thing. You both share a look.

The bartender slides you all your drinks, each of you taking a long swig for liquid courage for the night. Harley’s favorite Doja Cat song comes on and she gasps, clapping excitedly when she grabs you by the wrist, pulling you on the dance floor, “Come dance with me.”

You mouth a small ‘sorry’ to Bloodsport who you left at the bar, he shakes his head with a smile over the rim of his glass, watching you guys’ drinks. 

She dances wildly, jumping up and down, spinning to let her hair fall in many beautiful angles. She’s a powerful force and your greatest friend. She puts her arms around your neck and the two of you move in time with the music.

“So...” she motions to Bloodsport who’s being forced into a conversation with a woman at the bar. The woman puts her hand on his and he visibly shrinks back and whispers something to her that causes the most horrid look from the woman and for her to walk quickly away. You smile at the relief that interaction has brought you.

“So what?” you spin her around and pull her back.

“Quit with the good dancing, or I’m gonna fuck you myself,” she teases with a lightheaded giggle.

You smile, “We’ve tried that already, remember?”

“Too much history, I know, I know. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be nice...” she whispers into your neck, kissing the soft spot under your chin. Your skin heats up under her touch as she drags her hands down your sides, pulling you close to her so that you’re flush against her chest.

You give into her and kiss her slowly, her soft lips melt into your own when her hands tug in your hair. Harley and you have always had a complicated friendship, with enough sexual attraction to fuel a nuclear bomb, but not enough romantic. You love each other but not in the way you both need. You were in love with Robert and she is continuing to explore her sexuality because she likes women and so do you. So as she trails her hot mouth down your neck in the middle of dozens of bustling bodies and you lock eyes with an angry Bloodsport, you knew exactly what she was doing.

You whisper, out of breath, “Are you trying the jealousy trick?”

“It worked in college, didn’t it?” she kisses your cheek, smiling gently against your skin. “And it’s working now.”

“I think you’re just obsessed with kissing me,” you kiss her back.

“It was a win-win situation, doll,” she grins devilishly and you can’t help but agree. “So when you’re done with him, come see me. But right now, I have a sexy bartender lady to drink up.” You grip her hand and let her make her way to her next conquest.

Robert had seen the tail-end of your kiss, his deft fingers clenched around his whiskey glass. He knows he shouldn’t let this sort of thing affect him, something as juvenile and simple as jealousy. But he couldn’t stop that feeling of being stuck, unable to think about anything except the fact that it wasn’t him with his hands on you like that, lips marking you as much as he pleases. Sadness washed over him in a tidal wave and he set his glass down, about to get up to leave when he spotted a man eyeing you from the door. He looked familiar and it wasn’t just attraction he sensed in his eyes but something far more sinister.

A few more men followed suit and began making their way to you in the middle of the dance floor. He had no time to consider the facts, just to get you out of there as soon as possible. 

You feel a rough hand tug your arm and turn to face who you think to be Dubois, you smile, “Enjoy the show?”

“Very much,” an unknown voice answers, and you look up, eyes wide. “Now why don’t you come with me for a little talk, beautiful.”

“Get the fuck off of me,” you yank your arm back, slamming your heel down into the perpetrator’s foot. More men surround you on all sides, making it impossible for you to escape or use your subpar martial arts skills. Aerial yoga was a very different ballpark than kicking ass. And you were just a beginner.

You poorly punch a man in the face, only making them all angrier when you’re grabbed from all sides, being dragged towards the exit kicking and screaming. You didn’t want to be that helpless damsel in distress, but as all of these men, men you recognized from your family’s death, were surrounding you, you couldn’t breathe. Their hands felt familiar, grabbing your arms like they’d done that night before you hid in the secret door in the dining room. You had watched these faceless men through a hole in that door, stifling your cries when bullets sprayed the room your family was having dinner in. So while they were coming after you and pulling you outside, it’s all you felt. That same feeling when he wasn’t near.

Drowning.

There’s a hand that pulls you back and you watch, dazed, as Bloodsport puts every man who touched you on the ground. It’s filled with swift yet aggressive and barbaric movements, controlled, expert chaos and it happens within moments. His chest is heaving when he looks down at you and scoops you up in his arms. You’d object in any other circumstances, but this time, head against his chest and tucked in his arms, you were okay.

His voice rumbles against your side, “We’re going home.”

~~~

Harley’s tears hit your shoulder as you sympathetically pat her back.

“I’m so sorry, y/n. I shouldn’t have left,” she sniffles loudly. “I should’ve been there.”

You laugh softly, fitting your head into her shoulder, “It’s okay, Harls. It’s not your fault, there was no harm done.”

“There could have been,” she sighs. “I’m not letting you convince me to go out next time, you’re staying here forever.”

You roll your eyes with a smile, “Alright.”

She gets up and sniffs, wiping at her nose that’s now flushed from crying, “Good because I’m serious.”

“I know,” you laugh again, hugging yourself in a hoodie much too large for you, (because you stole it from Rick Flagg) swallowing you whole. 

Your eyes wander down the hall to where Robert is no doubt pacing around in your bedroom, the only room not laden with cameras (ironically for privacy). You kick at the floor in your fuzzy socks and think of an excuse to go check on him, even though you’re probably the last person he wants to see right now. You, frankly, don’t care.

“I’m gonna go-” 

“Check on Robert?” she finishes. “I know, honey. I was a psychiatrist, I’m not stupid.”

You crack a smile and grip her arm affectionately as you walk past her towards the bedroom. You don’t even take the risk of knocking for fear he’ll lock it and try your luck with just simply opening it. You see him, shirtless with a towel over his shoulder, a low hanging towel wrapped around his waist, while nursing his knuckles. He looks you over once you enter the room, trained eyes on you and the intimidation is definitely working already when he takes the damp towel on his shoulder and dabs the cuts on his skin.

He remains silent and you move to sit down on your bed, the awkward squeak filling the already high-tension atmosphere, thick enough to make your ears pop like you’re in an airplane too far up in the sky.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, drawing his eye. 

He hums and steps into your bathroom, washing off his hands. 

You frown at his lack of response, “Are you really going to pout this whole time? Because honestly, it’s beneath you, Robert.” You lean forward, watching as he walks out of the bathroom, still half naked, still silent. 

The silence is beginning to slowly kill you, especially when he looks this good, water droplets running down his chiseled torso from a hot shower. You didn’t let your mind wander because if the reaction your body is giving from the image before you was any indication, you want him. He walks in the room once again, mouth in an amused yet firm line. 

In actuality, he was ashamed of himself. Not so much of you. He would’ve left as that despair overcame him back in that bar. He would’ve left you there and abandoned his mission, leaving you to be hurt. If it hadn't been for those men, you could’ve been killed and it would be his fault. He alerted Waller of the attack, making up a lie about the two of you going for a walk at night and getting ambushed there rather than at a club. There’s a hit on each of those men being taken out as we speak as well as a search for their boss. Even though that still got him chewed out. He couldn’t imagine what she’d do to him if she found out the truth.

Robert walks slowly towards you, leaning against the bed frame, gesturing for you to continue. You watch him, distracted, as he wraps a bandage around his knuckles.

“I shouldn’t have kissed her to get a rise out of you, that was hurtful,” you exhale your words, quiet enough he wouldn’t be able to hear you if you weren’t within a breath of one another. You hang your head, “And it was stupid to go out in the first place when I am in this much danger. I could’ve been killed, and you could have been hurt. I’m sorry.”

He represses a laugh at the idea of him getting hurt, when the two of you both know that would never happen. But as the silence from him grows thicker, the more you start to ramble.

“Okay, this silent treatment isn’t going to work for much longer. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you need to stop.”

He gives you a look that says ‘make me’. But you both know you couldn’t if you tried, and vice versa. He thinks of you as a siren, one of those alluring creatures in old sailor tales that lured unsuspecting men to their painful deaths. As if he has no control of the way he feels about you. Which in a way he does, but he knows better. He knows better than to fall under your enchanting song, but he can’t help but be pulled beneath the surface of the water. 

Robert tenses when you move forward and the hoodie falls off one of your shoulders, revealing more of your chest, the smooth skin that lays there. 

His chest tightens when you look up at him and sigh.

“But thank you for saving me,” you say, both because you think that’s what he wants to hear but also because you mean it, you wouldn’t be here at all if he didn’t come with you.

He licks his lips and nods his head in simple recognition. He appreciated the apology, truly he did, but a part of him enjoyed the way you continued to ramble on, so he remained silent. This was an old interrogation tactic he learned when he served, keeping quiet always got people talking. He looks down at you and leans to meet your face, hands on either side of you. 

“I don’t know what else you wish for me to say,” you admit quietly, fiddling with your hands.

He didn’t know either but whatever you would say, he would listen.

“So I take it you’re not mad anymore?” you infer from his relaxed posture, heart beating out of your chest, fast enough that it catapults to your throat. 

He tilts his head down so he’s an inch before your mouth, breath fanning over your face. when he tugs you up to your feet, hands gripping the sides of your waist when he pulls you close. Your heartbeats began to sync up, chest to chest.

“I’m fucking furious, sweetheart.”

You meet his eyes, looking up in that seductive stare of yours you never knew you were capable of until him, and close the distance, kissing him lightly. His arms falter by your side and it’s the first time you’ve seen him hesitate, losing his cool. It’s the most gentle thing he’s ever experienced, everything in his life being forced, hostile, and malicious, while your soft lips against his are anything but. You kiss him like he’s not the monster he thinks himself to be. 

“Then let me make it up to you.”

“Fuck,” he grips your sides harder, palm moving to push you closer with his hand flat against the small of your back. “We shouldn’t.”

You search his face for uncertainty, but all you sense is a profound sense of clarity, in the both of you. “I know.”

“Will you regret this?”

You shake your head, hand against his cheek, “No.”

His dark eyes fall to your lips, pupils filling his dark brown irises, lust blown, “You’re so good, baby. You’re too good for me.”

Before you can tease him about the new nickname and object to that, his lips have crashed against your own. His hand slides up to cup the side of your face, drinking you in with his intoxicating kiss. You hum, content, against his feverish mouth and he opens it, vulnerable and on display. You feel his guard still up, tense and calculated, so you rest your hand against his chest. You press a kiss to his eyelid, his cheek, his nose, his chin, his jaw, his neck. He softens beneath you, groaning aloud as his hands tighten. 

“You don’t need to be afraid with me,” you whisper to him, tender fingers trailing down his shirtless chest, hot skin against hot skin. It’s enough to make you sweat.

He exhales and captures your bottom lip with his own, holding your face in both of his hands. The kiss grows heated and rushed, like you’re running out of time, as if at any moment those men would come back and find you and take you away from him again. His tongue expertly works with your own, licking the pout of your bottom lip, and coaxing you open. He slides his hand down between your legs, dipping his finger to find the slick in the middle of your thighs. You moan into his mouth, his other hand at the back of your neck when he buries his face in your shoulder. He kisses you there, the crook where your neck meets your collarbone, that damned sensitive spot. You succumb to his touch. His beard tickles your skin and you gasp when he sucks hard, a bruise forming.

You breathe a laugh, “Everyone will see if you leave a mark,” you tug on his hair when you thread it through his coarse curls. 

He falls under your spell and there’s something so ironically beautiful about this trained assassin with a heart of gold and the scars to show for it, being so open with you.

His hands, his entire life, have been forced to be instruments of death and violence. But as they slide down your figure, holding your face, and pulling you into him, they’re his greatest gift. He’s surprisingly tender with you. 

But then he has enough and pushes you down on the bed, arms trapping you on both sides.

He responds bluntly, “I don’t care.”

You part your legs for him and he releases a shaky breath. He slowly unzips your sweatshirt and it falls off you just as you do the same and tug his towel down. Both of you are bare before the other as you take a moment to drink each other in. You were just as, if not more, beautiful than he imagined you to be. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly as his hand drapes down the line of your figure. He touches you how someone would handle a glass vase filled with flowers. 

You take his face in both of your hands and kiss him, “So are you.” 

“I don’t think you know what you do to me, baby.” His hand finds your breast and squeezes while he kisses your neck.

You moan when he uses his other hand to grip your neck, thumb against your pulse point, “If it’s anything like how I feel right now, then yes, I do.”

He lifts his head up to watch your face as he chokes you, softly so he doesn’t hurt you but hard enough to play with your breath. His thumb opens your mouth and your legs tremble. 

“So I take it you’re into choking, my love?” You nod excitedly, unable to speak, and his grip tightens. 

You let out a squeak and he releases, face etched with worry, kissing your neck where he touched you. “Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.” 

You shake your head and smile comfortingly, “No, baby, I’m okay. I’ll tap out if it’s too rough, I promise,” you tease.

His grumbling voice deepens, “Good... because, darling, right now all I want to do is bury my face in between those gorgeous thighs of yours.”

You inhale sharply when he opens your legs once again, looking up at you and you nod in consent.

“I need words, beautiful,” he smirks with his mouth just above your center. 

“Yes, please,” you breathe out and he responds with a swift lick to your pussy. He looks up at you and when he catches your eye, it’s as if the sensation grows stronger and your head hits your pillow.

“I’ve barely even touched you,” he mumbles into you and you feel his smug smile in your thigh. His fingers dip into you as he flattens his tongue and crooks them towards himself, you grip your sheets.

“Don’t... flatter yourself,” you sigh out. “I-it’s just been awhile.”

He removes his mouth and fingers from you, “So anyone can make you feel like this?”

You enjoy the feeling you get when he looks at you like that, his eyes dark and dominant, so you play along and nod. “Yes, in fact, I’ve had better.”

He licks his lips and gets up from the bed. He opens his drawer and you sit up to look what he grabs: a belt. Your heart beats excitedly in your chest even though you know you shouldn’t be. He gets back on the bed and climbs over you.

Robert looks at you, “Hands.”

You extend them to him wordlessly, watching as he ties your wrists together and puts them over the bedpost so you’re trapped there, unable to move.

“Now,” he holds himself above you, pressing a kiss to your lips. “You’re to stay tied up until I say so, anything like that again and they get tighter. Nod if you understand me.”

You nod emphatically. You had never seen this side of Robert before, so in control and not afraid to go too far, it was so unbelievably sexy. 

The best part was he didn’t tie it tight enough, afraid of hurting you, so you could easily slip out your hands at any moment.

He kisses, painfully slow, down your chest and wraps his lips around your nipple. He swirls his tongue around the erect bud and you gasp, desperate to touch him. He looks up at you from you chest as he switches to the other, massaging the unattended one as he sucks, the pleasurable feeling overwhelming you. So much so you have to clench your thighs together, longing for some sort of relief for the tension building in your abdomen.

“Baby, please,” you whine, squirming beneath him.

He shuts you up with a bruising kiss while his hand slips down to enter you, two fingers in already. He pumps them in and out of you before sliding back down the expanses of your body and letting his mouth latch onto your clit. He sucks hard and you stifle a loud moan that would surely alert everyone in the home of your arousal. He holds you down against the bed with a palm flat against your stomach as you begin to lift your pelvis. His tongue enters you while his fingers take over, stimulating you with gentle rubs and flicks. But just before you feel that euphoric release, his actions cease and you’re left hot and flustered. 

“Robert,” you look at him with a deep frown.

He grins, “Y/n...”

You blow hair out of your eyes, “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He puts his lips near your ear, “Are you ready?” You nod as he pushes himself inside you and you bite back a moan into his shoulder. 

You finally have enough, slip your hands out, and he pinches his brow, unable to hide his shock before you bring him down to press your lips against his. He melts into you, arms wrapped around you while he holds you close, filling you out in all the right places. He quickens his pace and you whine into his mouth, nails digging into his skin. You wrap your legs around his torso and he hits you so nicely. He was right, it’s the best you’ve ever had. He rises and looks at you, lips swollen and red from kissing, eyes clear and pupils large, and face flushed with heat. Your hair is in messy tendrils at all angles and you’ve never been more attractive.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises in your ear, placing kisses across your jaw. “Taking my cock so well.”

You whimper and his movements stiffen as he approaches release and so do you, walls tightening around him. He reaches down and rubs your clit with his expert fingers. You finish together, mouths open and hands all over each other’s bodies. It overcomes you in a tingling, perfect sensation, it continues on, leaving you aching and wanting more.

He rubs his knuckles over your cheek, softly and adoringly he looks at you. You tuck yourself into his arms under the blankets. Everything you both have wanted for a long time, laying right in front of you.

“Still want to make me not walk?” you tease, looking up at him.

He kisses your eyelids and you giggle, “Fuck yes.”

Part 2?

[raunchyandpaunchy]

For the ask game, let's hear your Skyrim picks!

OHOHOHOHO thank you VERY much for asking, this is definitely one of my all-time fave fandoms and there are a TON of characters to choose from:

blorbo (favorite character, character I think about the most): Brynjolf, because sleazy, charismatic, sewer-dwelling men are apparently my type.

scrunkly (my “baby”, character that gives me cuteness aggression, character that is So Shaped): Gwilin! Love that lad.

scrimblo bimblo (underrated/underappreciated fave): Nazir is criminally underrated, which I do not understand, because how do you see a smoking hot snarky assassin with a sexy voice and NOT just lose your goddamn mind.

glup shitto (obscure fave, character that can appear in the background for 0.2 seconds and I won’t shut up about it for a week): I saw Drevis Neloren and Ingun-Black-Briar and went "y'know what these characters need? A whole backstory. Also, their backs blown out"

poor little meow meow (“problematic”/unpopular/controversial/otherwise pathetic fave): So many. Top three would be Astrid, Mercer Frey and Maven Black-Briar.

horse plinko (character I would torment for fun, for whatever reason): Overlaps with the above question because he's undoubtedly also a poor little meow meow, but Ancano, who I do go to town on with the Trauma Truncheon in a fic I'm not writing.

eeby deeby (character I would send to superhell): Honestly, I'm not sure? Several deserve it. I feel like this has a Correct answer, lore-wise, but honestly I'm 20% in this fandom for the lore and 80% in it to Make The Characters Bang so what the fuck do I know lmao. That said, possibly Ulfric Stormcloak? This is the only question I don't have a strong answer to, surprisingly.

Thanks again for the ask, and letting me have a good ol' ramble about one of my fave fandoms! Original post is here.

[tintinwrites]

i’d rather be lonely | Javier Peña x Reader | Part Eight

A/N: You all forgive me for the other chapters with this one, right?

Rating: 18+

Warning: Very passionate P in V sex on a desk in an office. Javier ain’t wrapped but is he ever? Please engage in safe sex with people. Naughty words.

Word count: 2,918, apparently!!

Summary: You and Javier are arguing now that you’re not distracted by success when you both, uh...explode.

Masterlist

GIF credit: @damerondjarin

Tags: @thedevilwearsvibranium @bisexual-space-slut @thirsty-flygirl @shadow-assassin-blix @damndamer0n @huliabitch @damerondjarin @perropascal @mylifeliterally @no-thanks-lol @dee-vn @jenniferdaniels12 @cinewhore @lokiaddicted @justabeautiful-letdown @shakespeareanwannabe @lackofhonor @katialvi​ @fangirl-on-bitches​ @im-an-angel-of-the-lord-you-ass​ @darkbluenovember

                                           ------------------------

“It was all her. I was just there.”

Javier nodded to what was being said on the phone as he sat on the side of his desk, watching as you quietly finished up your part of the paperwork that needed done.

The office was empty aside from the two of you and he looked at you with the corners of his mouth nearly turned up into a smile as he hung up the phone. “You wanna go grab a drink?”

You glanced up at him from the papers and shook your head lightly, the smile on your lips looking a bit more mocking than it did friendly.

You didn’t answer him at first, signing your name and then standing up to put the paper in a file folder then put it in its proper place for it to be looked over.

“Are you looking for something to stick your dick in to celebrate?”

This made Javier pause, his brow furrowed slightly, because you’d been good for a minute and now the joy of success seemed to have worn off and you were right back to hating him. He couldn’t stand this, couldn’t deal with you viewing him like this when he didn’t know what he did that could fuck up the camaraderie you’d found. “What the fuck is your problem?”

You glared at the anger in his tone as if you weren’t jabbing at him all the time, rolling your eyes and moving towards the door to leave.

Javier let his arms drop from where they’d crossed over his chest, pushing off the desk and grabbing onto your elbow to stop you from walking away from him.

“I asked you a question.” He didn’t want to sound like this much of an asshole, but he wanted you to tell him what he’d done wrong rather than just bitch at him or ignore him.

“Why don’t you ask one of your whores since you seem to value them so much?” You spat, quickly yanking out of his grip.

“Is that seriously what this is about? You know I sleep around. I didn’t think it would matter with...with whatever the hell it was we were doing.” He threw his hands into the air as if your friendship or whatever it was could be seen if he gestured in the right direction.

“And I thought I’d misjudged you and you were a good man, but I was right when I thought you were a womanizing, disgusting asshole.” Your voice was starting to raise and you could tell by the rage in his eyes that his was about to, too. You’d always been good at pushing each other’s buttons like this.

“Having sex does not make me a bad person, you’re not gonna stand here acting like you’re a fucking virgin—”

“You’re not gonna talk about me in a sexual way like that or I’m going to report you.”

“I’m not! I’m just saying that you can’t stand here telling me I’m a bad person because I sleep around. I thought you were starting to see more than that in me.”

“And I thought you were starting to see more with me, but I was evidently wrong, so fuck you, Peña.”

The two of you didn’t realize you’d been moving closer until you were toe to toe, practically nose to nose, and you were far too pissed off to realize what you’d said. It took Javier a moment, too, before he thought over your words.

Did you just…

Was that why you were so upset about finding him with a prostitute? Was he right about you seeing him as more than a womanizer, but wrong about how much more? Did you bring the churros because you owed him or because you were trying to tell him something?

He was angry, and confused, and you were starting to turn away from him in a huff, and his first instinct was to grab you, pull you against him, and slam his lips onto yours.

Your hands went up to push him away, but when they moved to his shoulders, all you did was grip onto his shirt tightly, your lips slowly starting to move against his in the angriest, most passionate kiss you’d ever been part of.

It was like all the frustration you both let build up was being put onto each other now in a way that revealed its true nature; you, wanting him and only hating him now because he’d unknowingly broken your heart, and Javier, wanting you despite how much you infuriated and confused him.

You broke apart with a gasp, holding onto each other with more passion than rage in your eyes as you stared.

“I’d rather fuck you,” he admitted.

You wanted to fuck him, too. Beneath all the hateful retorts was a woman who’d entertained the idea with a man who was more than she thought, trying to hurt him because he’d hurt her and she was sure he was the man she’d assumed him to be.

But maybe he wasn’t.

That kiss seemed like more than him simply wanting to fuck you and cast you aside, and you realized as you stared at him in crackling silence that he’d kissed you when you accidentally said you thought he wanted more with you.

Maybe you were foolish or maybe you were finally doing the right thing as you admitted that you wanted him, too, with your hands gripping onto his hair tightly to yank him back towards you.

This kiss was even more passionate, your lips slamming against his as you tugged at his hair, his hands moving to your hips and pulling you tight against him.

There was definitely a bulge in his jeans that only turned you on rather than making you insult him for it, now seeing the evidence of him genuinely desiring you and letting yourself want him; or maybe you were just joining all the other women and fucking him because he was attractive.

You didn’t care, letting your hands roam all over him as his ran over you, both of you stumbling as you kissed again and again, until he was turning you to press your ass into the front of one of the desks.

He shoved every last paper and pen off the damn thing and you hopped up onto it, opening your legs for him to stand between, gasping when he pushed your skirt up and stroked up your thighs immediately.

You pulled away to hurriedly unbutton that red shirt of his that fit him so nicely, kissing along his chest with every new inch of skin you could see.

You didn’t realize how much you’d wanted to kiss and touch Javier until you were doing it.

His fingers brushed against the edge of your underwear and he smiled when he felt lace, tugging it down until it was around your thighs to admire the scrap of clothing. “Never pegged you as the type to wear something so pink.”

“Shut up and take it off me.” You tried to stay assertive even though you were thinking of him pinning you down to this desk and fucking into you, leaning back to watch him as he moved away just enough to pull your panties down your legs until they dropped to the floor.

“Am I the one who made you wet?” He was referencing the glimpse of the wet patch he’d seen in your panties, silently asking permission with his hand on your thigh, rubbing circles into your skin, pushing his hand up further to that still-hidden place when you nodded your consent.

Both of you moaned when his fingers first brushed against your slit; you because it’d been a long time and you wanted him more than you’d wanted any person in your life, him because you were so damn wet for him, so beautiful, so fucking sexy offering him a chance with you like this.

He found your clit with practiced ease, but it took him a moment to find the sweet spot there that made your hips lift off the desk in search of more friction.

Your little whines and the wiggling of your hips made him focus his attention there, stroking slow and firm circles into you, pretty sure he was going to bust through his damn zipper with how wet and needy you were on his fingers.

You noticed the way he was pressing into the side of your knee for some pleasure of his own and you tugged him closer by his belt, quickly unbuckling it then opening up his pants, shoving them down enough to free his cock.

The sight of him made your clit twitch, eyeing up his gorgeous dick then letting your eyes travel up to meet his dark gaze.

You ran your nails through the curls at the base of his cock and his eyelids actually fluttered, lips parting slightly as he pressed into your touch.

“I can’t believe you didn’t wear underwear in jeans on a stakeout.” You wrapped your hand around him, squeezing lightly when you felt his fingers moving down to trace your entrance.

“I can’t believe you wore a skirt.” He wasn’t complaining, though, eyeing the bunched up fabric and sliding a finger into you easily.

“I wanted to look professional unlike you.”

“I wonder how you would’ve explained yourself if those narcos saw you skulking around the yard in a two piece suit.”

There was something different about the banter now, lighter and almost playful, more desire than it was hatred or heartbreak. It was even more satisfying than the spiteful retorts you used to take solace in when the job was too much, finding that you enjoyed flirting with Javier much more than hating him.

You were enjoying this entire thing, pushing aside all the emotions in your head about how seeing that woman leave his apartment hurt you, why it did, the way you could tell by the moment he chose to kiss you that this wasn’t just a fling to him.

Right?

His finger curled and rubbed up against a spot inside of you that made your jaw drop, a moan falling from your lips that you might’ve been ashamed for him to hear at one point. Not now. You wanted him to know how much you’d really desired him.

“That good?” he asked, not nearly as smug as you thought he would be to be pleasuring you like this. He seemed to actually want an answer to be sure that you were enjoying this.

“I want you inside of me.” It was gasped out, all needy and desperate, knowing that being fucked by Javier Peña was probably going to be better than any man who fucked you before.

His dick twitched in your hand at this and you watched the precum beading on his tip, squeezing your knees around his hips.

He pulled his hand away from you, hands on your thighs as he pulled you further on the desk and moved in closer towards you, lining his cock up to your entrance only to drop his head down with a groan.

“What’s wrong?” You asked with a hint of nervousness that you didn’t picture, wondering if he was going to tell you he couldn’t do this because of all the hurtful things you said to him, or maybe tell you that he’d rather be fucking somebody else.

“No fucking condom.” He started to pull away with a growl out of respect for you probably wanting a condom since he usually didn’t care, but you hooked your legs around him to pull him back and he looked at you questioningly.

“I’m on the pill. It’s fine.” Now his cock was twitching against your thigh and you reached between you, guiding him back towards your cunt.

“I can pull out,” he said quickly, because he was pushing into you and you were so fucking tight, so fucking wet, that anything else he tried to say was just a moan.

You were just sitting there with your mouth hanging open, eyes closing and your brow furrowing as he filled you; it was a little bit of a stretch, but it was pleasurable and you didn’t realize you’d missed sex this much.

Maybe you didn’t, maybe Javier was just showing you sex you were going to miss.

Was this a one time thing? Was that what you wanted it to be? Did you want to sleep with him again and be more than sex?

You knew the answer, but you weren’t sure if it matched his.

He was able to push most of himself into you before he knew he needed to pause to let you adjust to his size, grabbing onto the desk and hunching over you a bit so he could press his head against your shoulder.

How the fuck was a man supposed to keep from blowing his load when you were whimpering and moaning into his ear like that? Fuck, he knew you were unbelievably gorgeous, but he never imagined sex with you would be this incredible and, well, sexy.

Javier prided himself on being able to last a pretty long time during sex, and he needed to pause inside you to stop from coming with the way your walls were squeezing and clenching around him.

Once he was able to pull back a little and you were starting to stroke over his shoulders and his arms rather than sit there in awe of his cock, he slowly pulled himself out of you and then just as slowly pushed back in.

Both of you moaned in unison, finding a place where you weren’t arguing or secretly pining, where the world was just the two of you wanting and taking each other without thought.

The more he thrust, the deeper his cock pushed into you, and he began to speed up his rhythm a little, pumping in and out of you with ease because you were that damn wet.

A part of him wondered how long you’d wanted him and figured it was around the time you started being unable to look him in the eye for more than a second, but that thought wasn’t exactly at the forefront of his mind when you were this good.

You were staring at his neck, something you might have admired on him once or twice in the back of your mind because it was so soft-looking, so thick…

He let out a low groan when you leaned forward and sucked hard right above his collarbone, leaving a mark on him that he was pretty sure everyone was going to see at work.

It turned him on to think of people seeing a hickey on him from you, and he was on you the moment you pulled away, sucking and biting and nipping on the side of your neck, his hips thrusting of their own accord at the gorgeous moan that you let out.

His head fell to the side and pressed into your shoulder as he fucked into you harder, his hand moving along your thigh until he found your clit again, rubbing circles into it and occasionally flicking at it. You would jump and moan each time he did it, which only made him touch you harder.

“Fuck, fuck, Javi, I’m so close.” You’d never been this close to orgasming this quickly with anyone, but Javier was damn good at this and you were enjoying this and you didn’t care.

You didn’t care that you hated him, you didn’t care that you’d been hurt by him, you didn’t care that you called him by his nickname like you were friends, you didn’t care that you were letting him inside you like this.

Because you didn’t hate him, and he wasn’t hurting you, and maybe you were friends, and, fuck, you should’ve let him inside of you a long time ago.

He was approaching his own orgasm if the way his thrusts were becoming a bit jerkier was any indication, but like hell he was going to come without making you fall apart on him.

“You gonna come for me, huh?” He was growling, teeth bared, fingers moving even faster and firmer against your clit as you fluttered around him. “I want you to come for me, show me what I do to you.”

“Yes, yes, yes...faster, Javi, please…” You grabbed onto his shoulders tightly, pressing your nails into them and making him moan.

The desk was rocking against the floor with each thrust, he was fucking you so fast and hard, fingers moving even faster on your clit, and then you were lifting your hips and crying out, your cunt clenching so tight around him that he was moaning with you.

His thrusts were sloppy and uneven and he just barely remembered to pull out of you where he spilled all over your thighs and skirt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He was practically leaning entirely on you, one hand working you through your orgasm and the other jerking himself.

You both went silent aside from him panting into your shoulder and you panting against his hair, nuzzling into him like you were lovers or something.

When you slowly returned to the real world, you looked around the room then down at the two of you, leaning back a bit, not unhappy with fucking him even now that you weren’t only thinking about coming.

“Javier?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Isn’t this Steve’s desk?”

[wri0thesley]

number 11 with Melone?

“So���do you want your underwear back?”

warnings for: obsessive behaviour, stalking. neutral reader and pronouns although reader DOES wear sexy underwear. 

It's the third pair of underwear that's gone missing this week - and you really liked this pair, dammit! You're tired of going out to the cheapest clothes store you can get to with a shit assassin's wage (what kind of asshole pays their assassins this badly? Your boss, apparently), and having to choose ugly pieces that are on sale and not at all your personal style.

And, unfortunately, you know exactly what's happening to them.

You avoid Melone as much as possible. The rest of the team have not been at all coy about telling you you're doing the right thing; making vague references about how Melone treats possible lovers, or about how he can't be trusted, or about how he's just creepy. You've never been assigned to work with him on a mission - by all accounts, Melone works well alone, and Risotto is glad of that. But this is getting ridiculous.

You know it's none of the other guys. For one thing, they don't seem the type - and for another, most of them have shrugged and admitted they're keeping lovers on the side in safehouses and the like. Trying to keep their loved ones safe in the only ways they can. But Melone . . .

Well.

He's got nobody to come home to, if the boys in the squad are right. And from the hungry way he's always looking at you, eyes travelling the length of your body, hunger radiating off every lithe, panther-like inch of him, he's not particularly interested in keeping a lover off-base. He wants his lover somewhere a little closer to home.

It's not that he isn't handsome - he is handsome. It's just that he's so . . . intense. His eyes focused on you, gloved fingers flying over keyboard keys, low hum of acknowledgement in the back of his throat when somebody speaks to him. Utter focus. The cold, clinical way you've heard him talk about both his marks and his Baby Face mothers. Something about him just gives you shivers and shakes. Sorbet and Gelato are terrifying, sure, but they're terrifying in a way where you know what you're getting if you get on their bad side. Melone seems like he could snap at any moment.

You're not doing any good pontificating. You get up from your bed, slamming the drawer shut - your favourite pair of pale blue satin underwear with lacy rose appliques isn't going to retrieve itself from Melone's room on its own, you guess - and neither are all of the other nice pairs you've had to replace with sale rack rejects in leopard print and hot pink. You're sure Melone would appreciate them - he seems like the kind of guy who'd appreciate that kind of performance - but they're not very you.

You try and be quiet as you pad along the hallway. Melone's out on a mark, so you know he's not going to be around to catch you (the schedules of La Squadra members are easy to pick up on if you listen, or if you sweet-talk Illuso and bring him some of that hair conditioner he likes), but you still don't want anyone reporting back to Melone that you've been snooping about his room. Ugh. You wrinkle your nose, stopping outside his door. You can't believe you're going to go in there out of choice.

You hope it's not going to be like a weird fetish porn studio. You can barely look at the way Melone dresses without flushing red - most of La Squadra dress like they're in an erotic movie, but Melone is the utter worst for it. You pause, and take a deep breath. Alright. You can do this.

You push his door open--

And it's normal.

A perfectly ordinary, serviceable bedroom, much like how yours had looked when you'd first moved into the hideout. Yours is possibly a little more lived-in - you have nice coloured blankets and knick-knacks. Melone's bedroom is bare; a laptop on his desk, some biology and astrology books on a shelf, a tarot deck (you shouldn't be surprised about it, based on how much store he puts in where the planets where on nights people were born) - one decorative throw pillow. It's almost sad, how quickly Melone could probably pack his things up and just leave the squad entirely.

You almost feel bad for him, before you remember why it is you're in his room in the first place.

You're pretty sure Melone is stealing your underwear. Your used underwear, to make it even worse! Right out of your laundry hamper! (Melone, coincidentally, doesn't seem to have a laundry hamper. You wonder if his wardrobe is just full of the exact same suit and snort to yourself before you lean down by his bed and open a drawer).

Boring clothes. Civvies; plain shirts and jeans, that Melone almost never wears because his stand means he can work remotely. Clicking your tongue, you rifle through them - and your fingers catch on a hard edge. You push the fabric to one side and pull out . . . a photo album?

Is he secretly soft-hearted? Sentimental in private? There's a small smile on your face as you flick open the photo album, that falters when you realise the polaroids slipped within the clear casings all have one thing in common.

All of them are of you.

You, smiling as you talk to Formaggio. Your head thrown back in laughter on the sofa downstairs in the living room. Concentrating on a mark on a mission you'd been sent on with Prosciutto - your face falls as you rifle through them.

Not just you as a member of La Squadra. 

You as a civilian. 

A picture of you before you'd gotten caught up in this business. A picture of you and your family. Your graduating class--

Your heart begins to beat hard in your chest, as you drop the photo album and wrench open the second drawer.

A half-empty bottle of your perfume, that you thought you'd accidentally thrown away. Post, addressed to your old apartment before you'd moved in here. A napkin with a kiss mark pressed against it, lipstick in a colour you haven't worn for over a year.

Your guts feel like they're dropping through the floor as your shaking hands pull open the bottom drawer. This time, Melone's made no attempt to hide things from you.

Your underwear, neatly laid out beside one another, gussets showing. They're stained with something you know isn't from you. A sex toy that you'd bought and only used once because Pesci had knocked on your door whilst you were using it to check you were okay, and you'd bundled it away in your own bottom drawer so you didn't have to look at it and remember the sheer embarrassment of Pesci maybe overhearing you touching yourself--

Three more polaroids. You, undressing in the shower, bent over to fold your clothes. You, hands buried inside your shorts on your bed. You, getting dressed in a morning, bare in the light filtering through the curtains--

Your face burns at how open and vulnerable your naked body is in them. 

How did he get these?

Your hands are shaking, your mouth dry. You want to take your underwear back, but also - what might Melone do if he finds out you've found his creepy little shrine?

"Enjoying yourself?"

The voice is soft, the cadences gentle - but you still start, falling to one side, your head turning to stare at Melone through wide, frightened deer in the headlight eyes. He sees the fear on your face and smiles, cold and clinical, and you wonder if perhaps he's just going to kill you right here. He shrugs his elegant shoulders.

"I've been watching you for a while," he says, unhurried as he crosses the room, kneeling beside you on the floor like you aren't trembling viciously. He drags a gloved finger over your face in one of the polaroids, his small smile not faltering for a moment. "I had to bide my time, didn't I? But once you find such a perfect match, you don't want to let them go so easily . . ."

"Y-you're sick," you manage to spit out, heart beating like a drum. Melone tips his head to one side, considering.

"Healthy as a horse," he says, after a moment. He winks at you. "Hung like one too, if you want to find out."

Your fingers cling at his stupid, plain, characterless bedspread as you pull yourself onto your shaking legs.

"I'll tell Risotto," you whisper, your heart seizing in your chest. Your voice is coming out so dry.

"And who do you think he'd prefer to lose, cara?"  Melone says. He doesn't sound mean, or patronising, or smug - he sounds like it's a fact of life. "The new recruit, or me? Someone who's never failed on a mission? Who doesn't need a babysitter on jobs?"

"I--" your voice peters away. He's right.

"Besides," he says, motioning at the array of items he's collected. "Do you think I got these myself? Do you think nobody noticed? You're not the only one who can bribe Illuso with hair care products, you know." That same curious, simple smile on his face, he continues; "We share the same favourite brand."

"I . . . This is . . ."

Melone reaches over and he touches your face, griping your cheekbone in his fingers so you can't pull away. Your flesh feels like angry fire every place he skims, sickness rolling in your stomach.

"Oh, you're so pretty," he says, sing-song tone leaking into his voice. "You're going to be so perfect, tesoro."

The spell breaks, and you wrench yourself away. Fuck your underwear. Fuck all of your stuff. You stumble away from him, across the room, heading out of his door on unsteady legs that are at least managing to be fast. You hear Melone's voice, an echoing laugh as you head towards your own room to pack immediately and get the fuck out of here--

"So I'll take it you don't want your underwear back?"

[spicysoftsweet]

Rookie Crush Pt. 2 (Indoor Sin) - Tonpa x Chrollo **NSFW**

A/N: It turns out Tonpa x Illumi wasn’t forever. Also, please don’t unfollow me. 

Part 1 here

---

Tonpa’s life had changed dramatically to say the least.

After receiving the dicking down of a lifetime right before the 35th Hunter Exam officially began and again while in Trick Tower (his bulbous nose darkened into a dusky red color just thinking about it), he’d expected nothing more from those entanglements only to receive a text message from an unknown number as he began the long way home after failing, yet again. 

Illumi wanted to see him again, and Tonpa was on Cloud 9.

Aside from his admittedly sparse visits filled with short, intense bouts of passion -  Illumi was a busy man after all - he showered him with gifts, more than he could ever want. Tonpa, however, was wise enough to know nothing could come out long-term from such an arrangement, as Illumi was much younger and could obviously do better. Tonpa thought highly of himself but he wasn’t stupid, despite what others thought. 

Tonpa contented himself with accepting Illumi’s gifts wholeheartedly, in however way, shape or incredibly sexy form they came in. There was a finality to this “relationship,” if you could even call it that. So Tonpa decided to milk it for what it was worth.

“Lumi?” Tonpa spoke up, raising himself onto his elbows from where he lay by the assassin to watch his beautiful lover from the side.

“Mm?” Illumi continued to stare at the ceiling blankly. Illumi’s unreadable expression had terrified him the first few times, and Tonpa worried that Illumi was (appropriately) regretting his decision to be with him, but by now he recognized this as what Illumi looked like at baseline. Illumi’s gaze slid to him, and Tonpa lightly dragged a finger up and down his muscular chest.

“Have you heard of the YorkNew City Auction? I would like to go… if it’s not too much to ask.” 

---

Illumi worked the magic of cold, hard cash, and to Tonpa’s elation, he was now seated among the rich and the famous, clad in a fitted suit that cost much more than his entire life savings. The only thing that put a damper on this very moment in time was the fact that Illumi had declined to come with him, stating that he had an important mission to complete during that time. Tonpa decided not to be upset and focus on the here and now. 

Unfortunately for him, in mere hours was a siege of the entire auction, and Tonpa found himself fleeing and taking cover. Fear coursed through him, and while he hoped and prayed his Lumi would come to his rescue, he was also thankful his love was not involved. If Tonpa were to die today, he would die a happy man anyway.

As he ran into a secluded building, serendipity struck a second time.

Tonpa stopped in his tracks as he turned a corner into a room, and saw the most horrifying sight he’d ever seen. A man dismembered against a wall, not bleeding but breathing, and not whimpering in pain despite looking as though large chunks had been bitten out of his body. Tonpa unintentionally let out a gasp, and the man’s eyes shifted to look right at him.

“Help… me…” 

The soft iridescent glow coming from the room faded immediately, and Tonpa heard footsteps coming towards the door while the man who had cried for help breathed his last breath. Tonpa turned on his heels to run like hell again, only to hear a calm, yet firm voice.

“Stop right there.”

Tonpa froze in his tracks, his stomach turning.

“Turn around and face me.”

Tonpa turned 180 degrees and gazed into the gray, curious eyes of the most beautiful man he had ever met. Even with the soft glow of Chrollo Lucilfer’s Indoor Fish fading, the lights of the city under siege streamed through the glass, giving Lucilfer the look of an angel. Chrollo’s draw was magnetic and Tonpa’s feet stayed planted to the floor. 

He should be running. But instead, the angel extended a hand to Tonpa and smiled with gleaming, white teeth as their palms touched.

“Your name?”

“T-Tonpa.” A warmth spread over his cheeks again, somehow still apparent in the dark of the room by the Chrollo’s confident smirk. 

“Chrollo Lucilfer. Pleased to meet you. May I have this dance?” Chrollo drew the shorter man’s behind him by the arm without really waiting for a response, and with a flip of the pages of a book in his other hand, music seemed to fill the room, along with the same iridescent glow as before.

Tonpa looked up around him in awe as he spun around in the room with the angel of destruction, the man he already knew would threaten his already tenuous relationship. Beautiful sea fauna of all types and shapes and colors swam in the air above them, giving the room the look of the most exquisite aquarium, the two waltzing together on its sea floor.

“Indoor Fish,” Chrollo informed him, his gray eyes still posed on the man with a charisma, as intense but wildly different from that Illumi Zoldyck possessed the day they first met. 

Illumi. His Lumi would be hurt.

But regardless they continued to dance, Chrollo’s left hand interlaced with his, and his right pressing on the small of his back into him.

“Do you belong to anyone?” Chrollo whispered as they continued to wade the room with the indoor fish.

And Tonpa lied. “No.”

Was it really a lie?

Chrollo’s lips pressed to his once, a soft peck, before whispering, 

“Good. I wouldn’t have cared regardless.”

In seconds, Chrollo seemed to transform from the kind, gentle angel to the devil himself, his Indoor Fish swarming as though in tune with the fiery lust inside. And then the two of them hastily undressed, Tonpa pulling off Chrollo’s jacket, then shirt, then pants, stopping only for a moment to stare at the meal before him, before he bent over to take Chrollo’s erect cock in his mouth. 

He’d done this so many times for Illumi but with Chrollo, this act was different. His touch was tender and he didn’t move with the inconsiderate haste Illumi did at times; even his taste was different. Maybe it was the effect of the promise of a new beginning but Chrollo seemed to appear like a saving grace. His comparatively warm, slender fingers running through his hair as Tonpa bobbed up and down reassured him so.

When Tonpa rose, Chrollo slowly backed him against the wide window displaying the skyline but rather than forcing him facefirst as Illumi had, he slowly entered him, facing him the entire time, his lips nipping softly on his neck.

“I’ll take care of you like no one else has,” Chrollo promised.

What a promise to give someone you’ve just met, Tonpa thought. But at least for now, as he felt their bodies pressed together. He decided to believe it.

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #490

Top Ten Female Superheroes in the Movies

I feel like female superheroes – and I'm stretching the definition to include those who aren't consistently out-and-out heroic – are finally, belatedly, starting to get something approaching their due. Already this year we've had two Disney+ shows that had very prominent leading roles for female supers (I'd argue very strongly that Sylvie becomes a co-lead), and on the DC side there's still Supergirl and Batwoman. At the pictures, however, women in capes have historically suffered; if a film had a female lead, any poor performance at the box office was seemingly blamed on gender rather than, y’know, the film being crap. Fortunately the last few years have seen this trend starting to be reversed; Wonder Woman, Captain Marvel, Birds of Prey, and the recently-released Black Widow have all showcased super-powered female leads and been (for the most part) big successes too.

So, anyway, inspired in large part by the fact I’ve watched both Wonder Woman and Black Widow this week – and with an eye on future female-focused flicks too – this week is dedicated to my favourite filmic femmes (hmmm, there might be such a thing as too much alliteration. I need an avalanche of Advil…). I’ve tried to be pretty strict here and only use movie superheroes – although I’ve stretched that to its limit, as you’ll see. And, like I said before, I’m allowing “anti-heroes” – hey, I had a whole list about them last week, might as well double down! And I know what you’re thinking – surely, in over nine years of making stupid lists on a weekend, I’d have done this before. But no, I checked, and apparently I haven’t. Really I should have scraped the bottom of this particular barrel by now, but fortunately not!

There’s not much more to say at the moment really. Here are my ten favourite female superhero-type characters from the movies. I’m tempted to make some kind of terrible, cheesy reference to “girl power”, or end with a “you go, girl”, or something like that – but let’s face it, that’s a really, really bad, hackneyed idea. Let’s just get on with the list instead.

Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot, DCEU, from 2016): there can be only one! Yeah, still the best female superhero on the silver screen in my book. Gadot gives her the perfect blend of steely determinism and wide-eyed naivete; full of faith and righteousness, but also a fierce fighter. It’s clear from the moment she blasts, fully-formed, into Batman Versus Superman Colon Dawn of Justice that Gadot was born for this role, encompassing every aspect of Diana – the princess, the warrior, the ambassador, the goddess. Like Superman all those years ago, her solo film is equal parts optimism and pragmatism, and (despite the dodgy finale) it remains a wonder. Sorry.

Raven (Tara Strong, Teen Titans Go! To the Movies, 2018): here I go, cheating already. Yes, Raven is mostly from a TV show and I’ve decided this is a list of movie characters. But she is in a movie! And she’s the main character and focus of the straight-to-DVD sequel, Teen Titans Go! vs. Teen Titans. So yes, whilst her sole cinematic outing doesn’t really show her off to the greatest degree, she’s still amazing. A deadpan, dark-tinged comedic tour-de-force from voice veteran Strong, Raven is profoundly hilarious, one of the all-time great sarcastic pieces of comic relief. And, whilst we’re talking about the DVD sequel, Strong does a terrific job differentiating between the sillier, looser Go! version of the character, and the more sombre and serious OTT animated Titan.

Laura (Dafne Keen, Logan, 2017): otherwise known, in the comics at least, as both X-23 and, latterly, Wolverine. Laura is a frankly outstanding performance by a child actor. Steely, determined, pissed-off, wounded, proud, but still coming across as a child and not at all precocious or precious. And then there’s her physicality; she storms through the screen, a whirling dervish, leaping around and, frankly, slashing the shit out of everybody. She holds her own against the nuclear charisma explosion that is Hugh Jackman, and against the titanic chops of Sir Patrick of Stewart, and brings a huge amount of heart and pathos to one of the best superhero films of all time.

Catwoman (Michelle Pfeiffer, Batman Returns, 1992): yeah, okay, she’s not really a superhero. But Pfeiffer’s performance is phenomenal; one part sheer unadulterated sex appeal, one part wronged woman seeking revenge, one part utter batshit craziness (no pun intended). She created interesting layers of manic craziness to a character already a good fifty years old at that point, informing the portrayal of the character in comics and cartoons, and her chemistry with Keaton’s Batman lights up the screen. And, frankly, she was so damn sexy that she gave puberty to an entire generation.

Rogue (Anna Paquin, X-Men movies, 2000-2014): presenting Rogue in the first X-Men as a younger character, without her stolen Captain Marvel powers, was a masterstroke; making her the audience surrogate as a way to introduce the X-Men themselves and Logan in particular, giving the latter character one of his comic-book trademark young female proteges. Paquin does a tremendous job giving her an inner strength despite her heartbreaking power, and although she fades from prominence as the (increasingly bonkers) series progresses, she continues to give it everything she’s got, even if the films don’t do her sufficient justice. An excellent portrayal, sadly cut short.

Elastigirl (Holly Hunter, Incredibles movies, 2004-2018): ah, our first non-comic book character! Hunter is brilliant in this role, presenting Elastigirl as a feminist icon even as she’s forced into an increasingly domestic role. Despite the risk of her being portrayed as a shrill nagging housewife, stomping on Mr. Incredible’s fun, Hunter (and the script, to be fair) walks a fine line, and we as viewers are actually on her side as her husband takes foolish risks. And then, when the action kicks in, she’s amazing – full credit to director Brad Bird and the animators and Pixar. The sequel, which is mostly more of the same but still pretty great, gives her even more lovely character beats.

Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson, MCU, 2010-2021): I’ve given it an end date but let’s face it, none of us will be surprised if she turns out not be dead. The first real female superhero we see in the MCU is still the most important and effective. Johansson does a great job fleshing out Natasha, overcoming the cheesy nature of her debut in Iron Man 2 and some of the problematic wrinkles given to her in Age of Ultron. Over the series of films, she is a consistent action superstar, but also gives us interesting layers and wrinkles and depth, evolving from the badass assassin we first see to the hard-bitten leader in Endgame. Her belated solo film gives her some great opportunities to correct those early missteps, as well as deepening the character even further, and showcasing her action chops. A great character, but it would be nice if we knew there was even more to come.

Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie, DCEU, from 2016): another DC not-quite-hero, Robbie does a phenomenal job as Harley Quinn, one of those lightning-in-a-bottle perfect pieces of casting (and, I’ll be honest, the only other actor/character match-up that’s quite as perfect on this list is Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman). Harley is a character who can be so easily misused: the abused moll, the bit of eye candy, an objectivised woman denied agency who’s only seen through the lenses of the men. And, true enough, there’s a bit of that in her debut in Suicide Squad, but Robbie is smart enough and her performance strong enough that she transcends the muck that surrounds her. She nails the accent and the demeanour, and in what we shall choose to call her solo film, she gives us a raucous, hilarious performance as an emancipated Quinn, blasting through police stations with glitterball shotguns and snapping limbs left right and centre. It’s the anarchic anti-hero of modern comics turned up to 11 and with the pottiest of mouths, but she’s also smart enough and skilled enough to give us embers of a conscience beneath the crazy, and offers up some great character beats and a believable relationship with Cassandra Cain. I can’t wait to see what she does next.

Scarlet Witch (Elizabeth Olsen, MCU, from 2015): Here we have another performance that matures and develops over the course of a franchise – surely one of the greatest aspects of Marvel’s multi-film narrative arc. Coming in as a minor villain in Age of Ultron, Wanda is powerful enough to temporarily get the better of the Avengers just by being “weird”; subsequent films see her attempting to be a hero, suffering a series of tragedies, falling in love, and coming together to save the world in Endgame. In what amounts to a series of snapshots – a photo montage of ongoing character development – Olsen is able to flesh out Wanda, giving her depth, showcasing different facets of her character, and making her consistently believable. Yes, I know I said this was a list of movie characters, but it’s stupid not to own up to the fact that this all comes to a head in the frankly phenomenal WandaVision, which – despite having two Avengers’ names in the title – is really all about her. The series leaves Wanda in a totally different place, and as we see her next in The Multiverse of Madness, I feel like her story is only just beginning.

Jean Grey (Famke Janssen, X-Men films, 2000-2017): I mulled over whether to include Jean Grey here or Valkyrie from Thor, but despite Tessa Thompson’s terrific performance, I’ve gotta go with the Phoenix. Back when superhero films weren’t a cinematic religion, Janssen gave a terrific performance as a resolute, thoroughly sensible Jean Grey; a telepathic Girl Friday to the officious know-it-all that was Professor X, she shows intriguing cracks in her façade when confronted with the gruff and unutterably sexy Logan. Clearly a powerhouse without needing to show off, she gets more development and some great hero moments in the phenomenal sequel, before being giving an epic sacrificial send-off that sets up a rise from the flames that never really comes. Yes, despite being brought back in The Last Stand, it’s a storyline that’s fudged from the start, and the Phoenix as a mopey emo version of Jean just doesn’t cut it. It’s a storyline that’s handled better, but only just, in Dark Phoenix, but that film sadly doesn’t have the weight of character behind it; despite the excellent work of Sophie Turner, we’re barely introduced to the character in Apocalypse before hints of the Phoenix are coming forth, and next thing we know she’s going all crackly and accidentally killing dudes. So yeah: I prefer the OG Jean, and Janssen’s great chemistry not just with James Marsden’s Scott but Jackman’s Logan really does justice to that element of the comic book character too. Still, two timelines, two actors, two versions of the Phoenix Saga, and it still ends in disappointment. Hopefully we’ll get a better version eventually in the MCU.

[sexyrasputin]

in which she makes the innocent walk of shame

She wasn’t alone. She also wasn’t in her bed (hers was firmer). Apparently her movie night ended with her in Alfie’s arms in his bed.

She had not seen that one coming.

“Morning, angel.” Apparently not only was Emmy in Alfie’s arms, his head was pressed into the crook of her neck. He placed another chaste kiss there, sending her heart aflutter. For some reason, Alfie had become oddly affectionate, and Emmy had encouraged it. They were probably both just touch starved. Combined with his incessant flirting, it explained the situation.

“Morning,” she greeted, closing her eyes to savor the feeling of his skin against hers. He’d pulled off his t shirt before getting into bed. Emmy didn’t remember that, but Alfie wasn’t wearing a shirt anymore. She didn’t need to look to see how muscular he was; she could feel his hard chest and stomach against her. It was a nice sensation.

“How’d you sleep?” Alfie’s voice was husky and deeper than usual. If he hadn’t been just a friend, it would have been sexy.

But Alfie was just a friend.

“Really good,” Emmy admitted, mostly to herself. “You?”

“Better than I have in ages.” He pulled his face away from her neck, looking at her and brushing the hair away from her eyes. Smiling was easy with his ginger touch and careful attention.

“It’s nice waking up to this,” Alfie mused a few moments later, eyes still traveling her face. Her brows furrowed. She agreed it was nice, but it felt like there was more to it than being comfortable for Alfie. And maybe for her.

“Seeing you so early.” The subtle shake slid into his words once more. Alfie was nervous again. “Holding you. Being close to you. All that,” he continued, never taking his eyes off her face. It made her smile grow and her cheeks redden. She liked his attention, Emmy realized. He didn’t pay attention—not this type—to anyone else in the manor. She was special in his eyes for some reason, and while that made Emmy uneasy in both pleasant and unpleasant ways, she didn’t focus on it. She didn’t want to think too much about anything. Not with Alfie’s arms wrapped around her and holding her against his bare chest. Seriously, his pecs were solid. It felt nice.

“It is nice,” Emmy agreed softly. He was still gazing at her, like he would never get enough of her face. Truth be told, sometimes Emmy felt that way about Alfie, but she tried to ignore that. He didn’t.

“Last night was nice, too.”

Now her smile had grown more. Last night had been wonderful, even if Alfie did find out she was ticklish. They’d watched two great movies, they’d laughed, they’d talked, and they’d enjoyed each other’s presence in new ways. Cuddling would have to be a part of movie nights from now on. Emmy didn’t want to stop.

She nodded, eyes falling close as she burrowed her head against his chest. He still smelled nice. Unfair.

“What time is it? I feel like I slept forever.”

“Little after nine, so not too late.”

Her head pulled back. “It’s after nine? That’s late, Alfie.” There was a teasing tone to her words, one Emmy didn’t quite recognize the use of with someone outside of her family. She was definitely growing more comfortable with Alfie, and while she knew it wasn’t good, she didn’t know how to stop, either.

“Excuse me, Miss ‘I Wake Up at 6 am’. Some of us have normal sleep schedules.” He was teasing too. The grin, the wild one, on his face said everything.

Emmy rolled her eyes and used one hand to lightly thump his chest. “My schedule is perfectly normal. I have things to do.” Not that she had much to do outside of the manor. Business was low for assassinations. Nobody really was putting a hit out there that could afford her skill. Emmy could have been the getaway driver for Dani and whoever she brought along, but Magnus was much better at driving without attracting suspicion. Honestly, Emmy kind of just hung out all day and helped out when she could. But she wasn’t as vital to the group as her brother or Alfie.

“Like read books? There’s more to life than that, angel.”

She rolled her eyes again. “There is. Like movie nights.” And cuddling with her friend. Who maybe she didn’t want to stay just a friend.

“I can support that, I guess,” Alfie sighed, running a hand through her platinum blonde hair. She smiled to herself, cheek pressed against his chest.

“What are your plans for the day?” Emmy asked. It was Sunday, and Sundays were pretty casual around the manor. They didn’t usually have so many heists in a short space of time, but there had been more exhibits recently. Even then, Sundays had accidentally become everyone’s day off from the rest of the world.

Alfie tipped her head back, smiling down at her with that same wild grin she was starting to love. It made him radiant. “I’m doing some stuff with Dani in a bit, and hopefully spending more time with you.” His voice lowered with his face, and Emmy knew he could feel her racing heart. Her chest was pressed against his. No way he couldn’t feel how excited he made her. Excited that he was so close, that he wanted to spend more time with her, excited about him in general.

“I’d like that,” Emmy whispered. She looked into Alfie’s eyes, but they were studying a different part of her face. Was he—was Alfie going to kiss her? And did she want him to? Because she was pretty sure that she really, really wanted him to.

Touch-starved friendly flirting? Yeah, that wasn’t exactly the case for either of them anymore. Emmy didn’t have to ask to know that.

Alfie’s eyes flickered up to hers before lowering again. Her eyes shut in anticipation, face tilted up towards his, and she savored every part of him that was against her. He was strong and solid and warm. He smelled amazing, a scent Emmy couldn’t quite describe but would have to ensure he never ran out of. He was so close, but Alfie wasn’t close enough.

Warm breath tingled her lips as he drew closer. Emmy swallowed, nervous and excited and exhilarated all at once. This was new. This was big. And this was something she really, really wanted.

The kiss didn’t come.

The knock on his bedroom door made sure of that.

Emmy’s eyes flew open, shocked out of her Alfie-induced reverie.

“I should get going,” she whispered, voice just below a whisper. Before she could see his frown fully form, Emmy turned away, rolling out of his arms and off the bed. Nervously, she tucked her hair behind her ear. The knock at the door came again, and Emmy hurried more as she grabbed her phone and all but ran out of Alfie’s room.

Alfie’s room.

She had just spent the night in Alfie’s room. In his arms. She’d woken up comfortable and warm and happy and in Alfie’s arms. And then he’d all but kissed her. And she’d wanted him to. She’d wanted him to kiss her!

Emmy didn’t make eye contact with Dani on her way out; she didn’t say anything, either. No, Emmy rushed down the hall and up the stairs to her rooms, wanting to make a quick escape and try and figure out what had just gone down.

She’d almost kissed Alfie. Alfie! The goofball, daredevil prankster. Her brother’s best friend (or closest thing to it). The guy who was always flirting with her in a friendly, harmless way. Alfie, who always called her angel. Alfie, the guy she apparently wanted to kiss.

So much for that flirting being friendly, because Emmy was certain it hadn’t been friendly in a long time, and she was just now realizing it.

She did not want that flirting to stay friendly. Emmy wanted Alfie to hold her, to touch her, to kiss her. Emmy wanted Alfie, and she had no clue what to do with this new information, but she knew being scared (which was her current state) probably was the wrong answer.

[luna-rainbow]

jdrama 2020 spring

For those who haven't been paying much attention to what's happening for Japanese TV, and more as a record for my future self who may want to look at the disaster that was 2020, the spring season had meant to be the pre-Olympic season. Given that the Olympics would attract the attention of most Japanese audiences, the TV channels had invested most of their hopes (and budget) in this season. Much awaited sequels for Hanzawa Naoki, Haken no Hinkaku, the Japanese remake of Suits, and BG were to lead the season, while star-studded casts filled out the rest with Ryuu no Michi, Unsung Cinderella, MIU404 and Miman Keisatsu. Almost every A-lister was on the roll. But, like many things in the last 3 months, that was not to be, even as Japan admirably took reins of its earlier explosion and kept the local outbreak under control. None of the above listed shows except Suits managed to screen, while smaller scaled shows managed to scrape past the quarantine and make their way to the networks. Bishoku Tantei ~ Akechi Goro | Official site Stars: Nakamura Tomoya, Koike Eiko The premise of this is one of those silly things that can only arise from a manga. A private detective goes around solving cases that are related to food, and in the first case he accidentally creates his arch nemesis, a beautiful woman who connects with her psychopathic inner self and finds a second career as an assassin for hire. She enjoys killing people, so why not, she reasons, do it while helping others who want to kill people but don't know how to go about it. I only recently watched Legal High, and it was only then I realised that not so many years ago, Koike Eiko went by sexiness rather than good acting. It's remarkable how much she's come from that, especially if you watch her act in Toma's recent Watashi no hanashi ga nagai. This series brings her back to the femme fatale or murderous vixen trope, which she clearly enjoys. Unfortunately, there's not much else to enjoy about the series. Nakamura is far less interesting here than he was in Nagi no Oitoma. What might have worked as a manga with its dramatic grandstands and aggressive flirtations come across as awkward and difficult to believe when transplanted to real life. There is also not much "life" in this series...the story exists in its own bubble of reality, and the world around it seems empty and soulless - again a set up that works with manga but feels poorly fleshed out in live action. Silent Voice 2 | Official site Stars: Kuriyama Chiaki I have a fond spot for Kuriyama, who has always been one of the more versatile actresses of her age. The first season was enjoyable - Tateoka Ema might come across at first glance to be a wallpaper, but she has a special skill of extracting information from suspects by their subconscious reactions and gestures. It's as if the American Lie to Me was crossed with Amami Yuki's KinTori, Kuriyama manages to dominate the camera by the way she controls the flow of the investigation or reacts to the information presented. Almost all of the scenes take place inside the interrogation room (one reason why this season managed to screen without glitch), but still remain gripping for 40 minutes each time. Tateoka's side kick has changed from Shirasu Jin to Baba Toru, as the former has joined a cooking show set in a fictional town of European characters played by Japanese actors...so, let's not start. Byouin wo Naoshikata | Official site Stars: Koizumi Kotaro, Takashima Masanobu I had no idea what to expect when I went in, and I was pleasantly surprised. Apparently based on some true events, the story is about the revival of a small district hospital by a brave hospital director who brings in a number of radical reforms. It sounded mind-numbingly boring, but turned out to be a remarkably pleasant watch. It's nice to see Koizumi go back to playing his type (instead of his recent roles as the mastermind villain) as a smiling, unflappable, optimistic yet realistic and big-hearted gentleman. In fact, Arihara is so perfect it's hard to believe someone like him exists in real life, yet it is also very hard to dislike him. One amazing scene was when he, as the new vice director, gets confronted by the entire frontline staff over his decision to pare down and standardise medical supplies, and one of the senior nurses challenge him with, "What if we make a mistake because we're not used to the equipment?" He smiles graciously and says without a hint of irony, "Let's avoid that from happening; after all, we're all professionals." In the hands of anyone else, it's hard to avoid making that line sound patronising or passive aggressive, but there's something about Koizumi's manner that makes you believe it's heartfelt. I'm not sure how the Japanese health system works, and it seems quite different to what we're used to. The impression I get (and feel free to correct me if you're familiar with the system) is that there are numerous small privately owned hospitals, which has the right to refuse to accept or refuse to treat certain emergency patients. As one recent newspaper article alluded to, during the height of the Covid outbreak, one ambulance circled the streets of Tokyo for hours before finally a hospital agreed to accept the patient. Beyond that though, I'm getting to the stage of life (or career?) where management is interesting, if only on a theoretical level. Good doctors do not often make good medical administrators, and doctors also classically respond poorly to being managed, but whatever health system you work in, hospitals are a money-draining exercise, and sometimes these result from considerable wastage and inefficiency. It doesn't quite have the drama or stakes of Ikeido Jun's underdog series, and that's to its benefit. It's smaller scale and as a result much more intimate and relatable, as though this story might take place on your neighbourhood.

[whatdoyouexpectthistime]

Blood Spatter - Part 1

It’s the shrill and frantic screaming of a phone that abruptly interrupts the dreamless dark of my sleep. Thundering jackhammers valiantly try to drown out the sound with blinding pain in my head.

“Fuck, shut the fuck up,” I growl, pawing around wildly for the location of my phone until I somehow coincidentally manage to hit the answer button. “What?”

“Miho?” comes an urgent male voice that makes me cringe for more than one reason.

“Jesus Sebastian, stop yelling,” I hiss, covering my eyes with my forearm though the room is already dark.

“Maybe if you answered your phone when I call you, I wouldn’t have to,” Sebastian argues, his tone a blend of relief, worry and scorn. “Where the hell are you?”

For a moment I ponder this answer – I should be more concerned that I have to think about it.

“Home,” I finally determine.

“Are you sick?” he pursues. “Mieke, Kara and I opened the club without you, but that’s never happened.”

“Oh shit,” I curse, sitting up far too suddenly for the likes of my migraine. “Mmph, um… I’m sorry, I’ll…”

“Are you sick?” he repeats more seriously.

“No, I… um…”

I… um… struggling to answer that question – why am I struggling to answer that question?

“Some guy nearly hit me with his car,” I respond finally, the memory hazy. “I hit my head when I stumbled.”

“I’d ask if you’re all right, but clearly you’re not; I’m coming over,” he states, leaving no room for argument.

“Fine, you can drive me to work,” I conclude, pushing back the duvet and wriggling into a sitting position.

“We can discuss it when I arrive,” he grumbles. “Don’t do anything crazy in the meantime.”

Pfft, like I ever do anything crazy.

 There is nothing interesting about my getting ready for work routine, except that my headache wanes a little. Still, I’m sloshing some aspirin around in a glass when he buzzes my intercom.

For a few seconds I look at him on the LCD screen, admiring the strong line of his jaw, the faint hint of stubble and the fall of several dark strands of hair that constantly fall across his forehead.

I’d be lying if I didn’t think there might be a better – more fun – way to get rid of my headache’s remnants.

“Are you going to let me in?” I hear his voice through the speaker, and I break from my lascivious reverie.

“Sorry,” I apologise, though he can’t even hear me, and in what seems like a far too short time, he’s travelled up several floors and is knocking on my door.

“I’m angry with you,” are the first words from his mouth, and though he’s frowning, he’s looking me up and down with an analytical eye.

“Thanks, Dad,” I mock, turning to get my handbag, but Sebastian takes my wrist and slowly forces me to straighten.

“I’m not done checking you over yet,” he grumbles, and there’s a pout in his voice though his expression remains stern.

His hands begin on my cheeks, large hands I always feel could crush my head and yet are so incredibly gentle as they graze my skin.

“Sebastian,” I whisper in complaint – but the downward intonation of his name, and the tilt of my head against his palm, betrays my alternate agenda.

“Don’t you ‘Sebastian’ me,” he huffs, sliding his hands deliberately down my throat as he leans closer to examine a contusion on my left cheek. “You’re never late, never sick, never out of touch, and with… well…”

His sentence trails off, but I know exactly where it was going.

“I was afraid,” he admits, and I actually think he’s being serious.

This guy, who I feel has never been afraid of anything in his life, his brow is now creased, and my reflection in his sometimes-animalistic brown eyes wavers with genuine unease.

“I was afraid something had happened to you too,” he adds, shifting his weight, and when I cannot help but form a slight smile, I think I see him faintly blushing.

“As if,” I snort, slapping his chest with the back of my hand before scooping up my handbag. “I was an assassin in a past life.”

  It takes a little more convincing to get Sebastian to allow me out of my apartment, but eventually he drives me to the club – on the provision I let him drive me home after closing. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this. Though he’s come home with me plenty of times, our relationship has never been more than a mutually agreeable meeting of flesh and pleasure. The depth of his disquiet is surprising, and I’m not sure how to take it.

“Where the hell have you been?” Mieke glares, the moment we enter Pale’s foyer.

“Easy, tiger,” Sebastian grunts in Mieke’s direction, then heads off to do the rounds.

“Overslept,” I tell her sheepishly, and it’s not really a lie.

“Oh yeah? Well I didn’t – I got here three hours early because Seb’s losing his shit about you not answering your phone,” she huffs, but I can tell she’s not actually mad at me. “Kara’s already doing rounds in the basement.”

“Sorry, I’ll get to work, Boss,” I smirk.

“You might want to start with Mr. Lambert in the lounge,” she suggests, and I know she sees the way I’m suddenly more focused. “Thought that’d get your attention,” she sniffs. “And tonight, believe it or not, he’s alone.”

“That’s weird,” I agree. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without a harem.”

“Right?” Mieke nods. “Go and take advantage.”

No harm in buttering up a VIP.

The man is an immaculate specimen, the kind who conveys so much with his mere presence alone. His suit is easily worth as much as the entire contents of my wardrobe, clearly custom tailored to emphasise his best physical features: and god damn, those features. They’re a sonnet of masculinity, a rousing canticle of sculpted muscle in perfect proportion.

Intimidation is not something I’m used to submitting to, but every time I’ve had cause to interact with Kiril Lambert – billionaire CEO of KeepsGuard Risk Management and Insurance – I’ve had to struggle against a tide of uncertainty and doubt.

He makes me feel small: I hate it, but affix my best smile as I approach, and bury the instinct to act meekly behind a fortified wall of self-confidence.

“With compliments of the house,” I smile, placing the tray down on Kiril’s table, before taking the uncorked bottle of very old and expensive whiskey in hand.

“It’s my understanding, you are the house,” Kiril points out blithely as he adjusts his silk tie slightly, but for a few seconds I find myself enchanted by the nonchalant motion of his hand. “So it’s you I have to thank. Join me.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, but for some reason, I don’t feel offended by his assumption; I am no stranger to this type of attention in my club – without being arrogant - but in this instance, I shock myself by acting completely out of character.

Compliant.

I put it down to my headache and try to cover a grimace with graciousness.

“It’s my policy not to mix business and pleasure, Mr. Lambert,” I tell him casually, but slip into the booth opposite him nonetheless, “but since you’re Pale’s resident celebrity, I’ll make an exception.”

“Is that the only reason?” he enquires, eyes fixed on my fingertips, apparently fascinated by the way they dig into the wax sealing the amber liquid behind crystal and begin to peel it away.

“What would you like me to say?” I ask, pouring carefully into his glass before pushing it toward him.

I sense my quip is a dangerous one, but simply can’t help playing his game.

“That you’ve finally given in to your burning desire for me,” he replies: so blasé, it almost doesn’t sound like the words of a consummate playboy.

Here is a creature blessed – sublimely handsome, connected and wealthy – oh he never wants for companions.

Normally, I would scowl at such a line, but he drops it so effortlessly I actually laugh.

Then regret it.

Grimacing, I resist the urge to rub at my temples and straighten my back.

“Something wrong?” he queries, slowly coiling his fingers around the whisky tumbler.

It’s such a simple gesture and yet I find it so incredibly sexy I nearly forget my pain.

The unusual green of his gaze pierces through my attempts to appear unaffected, and though I have reassurances on my tongue, I find myself barely able to inhale, let alone form words.

“Ah, it’s just a headache,” I finally manage, and frown at how breathless I sound.

“Late night?”

At this I scoff.

“I run a club, I’m practically nocturnal,” I point out, but thinking about the night previous makes the pain increase threefold.

“A woman after my own heart,” he chuckles, “but that doesn’t explain your obvious discomfort.”

“I had a run in with… with a…” I begin, then cringe when it feels as if my brain is expanding, threatening to burst from my eye sockets.

“You look like you’re in need of a medicinal dram,” he declares, turning his glass slowly by the rim, casually observing my growing distress.

“Hm, if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be from the top shelf,” I murmur, trying to blink away the stars sparkling across my field of vision.

“Then please,” he beseeches, though the two words again sound more like an instruction, “allow me to make you feel a little better.”

Men like that don’t beg.

Ever.

Used to being propositioned in my own club by drunken idiots, I totally take it in my stride – though I find my answer uncharacteristically more flirty than is routine.

“And how might you achieve that, Mr. Lambert?” I question, tweaking a crooked smile despite the continuation of heavy drums in my head.

Before his lips even part, his eyes flicker somehow more brightly, and again I find myself transfixed by the way emerald flames seem to dance within their depths.

“Kiril,” he corrects, “and I have myriad ways.”

His voice low – the brush of velvet across my skin, and that alone seems to dull the war raging between my ears.

“I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me to call one of London’s most successful CEOs by his first name,” I point out, not that I believe in elitism.

“This successful CEO is offering it to you,” he shrugs, it being his first name, not the lewd other it that suddenly invades my mind’s eye. “But for now…”

His fingertips are cool, smooth, as he turns my right wrist over onto his palm, and I flinch at the unexpected contact.

“Close your eyes,” he orders firmly, and before the thought can even register, I’m smothered in the darkness beneath my lids. “Just breathe,” he whispers, a breath I can almost feel against my cheek though I know he is still across the table.

A shudder ripples through me, tingling that begins at the stroke of his thumb against the pale underside of my wrist, and gathers momentum up my arm.

“And that’s just my thumb, Sparrow,” I hear him say, see his lips moving and the hungry blaze of his stare though my own eyes remain closed.

But did he even speak? I can’t tell, but I respond anyway.

“Oh really?” I sniff, wanting to smirk at the boldness of his allusion, but the deepening pressure of his thumb into my skin, the tendons, warns me not to.

“Shh,” he soothes, pressing against one point that for several seconds makes me feel dizzy.

Then the clattering discomfort of the marching band parading through my brain is silenced.

Everything falls silent.

The sweet jazz piano.

The quiet chatter of staff and other nearby patrons.

The clink of glassware.

Until a new rhythm emerges – faster and faster and faster, until the pounding of my heart is almost unbearable.

“How did you…” I exhale, finally opening my eyes.

Pain free, I meet him halfway, though the intensity of those penetrating meres threatens to cause my calm to crumble.

“Magic,” he smiles confidently, continuing to gently caress from my wrist, along the lifeline of my palm.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I struggle to the surface, swimming valiantly out of a verdant ocean to break eye contact and reclaim my hand.

“What the hell is going on?” I wonder, for I can feel him crawling across my skin, sliding to places hidden beneath my clothes.

I have seen him in Pale plenty of times, and while I’ve acknowledged his inexplicable beauty, always pausing in my rounds to perve discreetly, I now feel an almost overwhelming magnetism that sticks me to my seat.

But there is someone else observing us; I can feel Sebastian’s scorn as surely as if he was waggling his finger disapprovingly in my face.

“Looks like your boyfriend doesn’t like me touching his property,” Kiril snickers, taking my other hand when I look in Sebastian’s direction. “Not one to share I take it.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, but I should…” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Stay,” he commands quickly, a word from his mouth before he even thinks it over; he surprises even himself, as much written in the sudden – though fleeting – change in his countenance.  

Because that makes it so much better.

“Excuse me?” I snap, and whatever hold he’d had on me shatters. “Pardon me, Mr. Lambert, I should resume my duties. Please enjoy your drink.”

He lets me go, regaining his air of self-importance, but I hear him as I walk away – am sure I am supposed to.

“I think I would, very much.”

“Fraternising with customers now?” Sebastian almost accuses, the moment I am within earshot, and I feel myself souring further.

“Any issues?” I redirect, but Sebastian has me caught in a purposeful gaze.

“Miho,” he levels. “Kiril Lambert is not someone you want to get involved with.”

“Oh yes?” I sniff, undaunted by the seriousness of his expression. “Successful, influential, wealthy, and not shy about spending his money here,” I add.

I leave off how hot Kiril is – no sense in provoking Sebastian.

Working his jaw, Sebastian stares at me, attempting maybe to transmit his disdain via telepathy.

“It’s already not my night,” I sigh, finally heading for the stairs. “Please don’t make it worse.”

Surprisingly he doesn’t follow to my office, which is just as well.

Still, it means I’m alone as I flop down behind my desk, and beyond, Jazz’s empty workstation screams out her conspicuous absence.

It just doesn’t feel right without her, and it’s not just about the physical space she should be taking up – she means so much more to me than that. Her absence is like a hole, carved right through my perception of everything; we’re sisters in all but blood, and the only family either of us have left.

“What did he do to you?” I hiss to the room, but further ponderance of Konstantin’s involvement in Jazz’s disappearance is brutally shoved away by the feeling of someone driving an ice-pick through my skull.

But that isn’t the only sensation.

Against the lacquered wood I ball my fists, leaning forward like it might make the pain less severe, but my mind is tugged in the direction of a solid collision.

The ground.

Wet under my body.

In the darkness, afraid, and barely clinging to consciousness.

Vaguely I hear a question and a name.

“Alex?”

Groaning, I blink away the vision, and through clenched teeth I breathe moist patterns against the desktop. The images, the sensations, the emotions all feel so real.

Then it’s Kiril Lambert who floats into my mind; the gentle touch of refreshingly cool skin against the flush of mine lulls some of my present affliction. Desperately I want him to caress me again, and I realise it’s not just because of the way he so easily chased away my resurging migraine.

“And that’s just my thumb, Sparrow,” I hear him purr again, and though I hate the diminutive, I cannot deny the growing knot in my stomach and the tingling warmth in places I’d like to experience his other fingers.

Resisting the urge to allow my own hands to wander, I settle for some more aspirin and paracetamol, before heading back downstairs to work.

 Adding to my pre-existing irritation, the sensitive throb of my nethers doesn’t fade as the night wears on, any more than my headache. Crossing the basement nightclub dance floor, nodding to Kara as I go, I’m afforded the occasional, incidental bump in the right spot and it sends a shudder of pleasure through my body – and though Sebastian and I have enjoyed each other’s company many times since he came to work at the club, it’s Kiril Lambert who flashes into my mind.

Avoiding him is suddenly not so easy when my feet seem to have a will of their own, but I stop in my tracks on the far side of the lounge, when I find he is now not alone.

“Of course he’s not,” I chide myself. “Come to the club and just sit there for hours alone? Him?”

No indeed. He’s surrounded by his typical entourage of slender beauties, who stroke down his lapel, touch his skin, murmur against it.

Perhaps he feels my gaze as it lingers too long, because he looks through his company at me; they don’t seem to notice he is no longer with them, as surely as if he’d gotten up and walked away.

“Feeling lonely, Sparrow?” he smirks, I see the question glow in those green pools that penetrate me so thoroughly.

And I don’t even think I mind, not that I’d ever admit it aloud.

”Ah, not lonely, something else?”

His smile grows wider with certainly as his gaze wanders down my body.

“Am I actually hearing him in my head?” I scoff at myself. “You have bigger issues to worry about than your libido.”

“Speaking of bigger things…” I hear him grin, as I turn away and force myself to shift toward the lounge bar.

Which is just as well considering the insolent flick of my hair causes a chandelier to drop and brain me: not literally, obviously, but that is certainly how it feels.

Clutching the edge of the bar, I lean against it heavily with my eyes tightly shut, and Morris the bartender is quick to show his concern – and he is not alone.

Faintly, I hear a woman yelp, then the touch of a hand against the small of my back.

“Still broken, Sparrow?” Kiril whispers into my ear, leaning a little over my shoulder.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I gasp out, trembling and unable to open my eyes.

Though Morris puts a glass of water in front of me, I don’t notice, too busy shaking, too busy glaring into the face of someone I vaguely recognise and the way his teeth are bared threateningly.

“Where is she?” I hiss, losing my legs to slump back into Kiril’s arms, whimpering pathetically.

“What did you do?” Sebastian barks, and his voice rings in my ears as he rushes up to pull Kiril away by the shoulder.

Kiril’s response is to slap Sebastian’s hand away, but he neither confirms or denies his involvement in my debilitated state.

Had I not been just about ready to empty my stomach on any available pair of shoes, I might have wondered at the ferocity of their accusatory glares, that, and the origin of the prevailing notion in my mind – both a source of agony and truth.

“Alex knows where Jazz is!” I exclaim breathlessly, but the moment the sentence is from my mouth I want to curl into a ball. “Fuck me…”

“Another night, perhaps,” I vaguely hear Kiril murmur.

“Back up,” Sebastian commands savagely, and I feel his arms close in around me.

So warm, but there is something I suddenly miss about delightful prickle of cool skin, and from Sebastian’s embrace I blink away tears to fix my watery gaze upon Kiril once more.

“Where’s Alex?” I hiss, but my body is suddenly exhausted, and I collapse against Sebastian’s chest.

To this I get no answer, not that I could actually process it if I had.

All I want is for the evening to swallow me completely, to wrap me in darkness that steals away the terrible vortex of torment tearing my brain to shreds.

 __________

 With refined detachment, Kiril watched Sebastian easily sweep Miho into a princess carry, but he found himself captivated by the limp swing of her arm when the other man stepped away. Crushing a surprisingly tenacious desire to snatch Miho away like a jealous dog over a bone, he instead watched Pale’s head of security disappear with his prize, without stirring further.

He was by no means oblivious to Miho’s amateur – though by no means insignificant - investigation into the disappearance of her business partner; he was aware she’d ruffled many feathers by shouting out the name Konstantin in places she was sure she’d be heard.

Oh, she’d been heard.

Smirking, Kiril didn’t even bid farewell to his vacuous company, and left Pale without a fuss, pressing his phone lightly to his ear.

“Ah cousin dear,” he drawled, his free hand in his pocket as he strolled down the street. “I love what you’ve done with that problem from last night.”

There was a short silence, before a female voice responded.

“Are you following up?” she queried and didn’t sound especially impressed about it. “You?”

“Pure happenstance,” he shrugged, even though his cousin could obviously not see him. “I heard the girl nearly got herself killed by one of Konstantin’s fanboys.”

“What’s your angle, Kiril?” she asked suspiciously. “Why the interest?”

“We both know full well she’s hunting for Konstantin because he’s abducted her friend,” he responded – because abduction was no big deal. “What I don’t know, Narumi, is why you didn’t erase her desire to find him.”

“You don’t think her sudden disinterest in the location of her business partner and best friend would be a little suspicious?” Narumi volleyed, and Kiril could tell she was annoyed – just as she always became annoyed when he challenged her. “Especially to the likes of Sebastian Ross.”

“Oh yes, and he is very interested in her, a real knight in shining armour,” Kiril chuckled, stopping at an intersection to wait for traffic.

“Don’t provoke him, Kiril; I don’t need the headache,” Narumi sighed, and Kiril got the impression of her rubbing her temples. “For once it’s Konstantin causing a stir, and unless you want Konrad on the warpath, just stay out of this and let me handle it.”

The mention of Konrad caused Kiril’s top lip to peel back in a sneer.

“Where is Konstantin and his little friend?” he grated between his teeth, stepping – no, stalking – across the road.

“I haven’t located them yet,” Narumi admitted. “He’s doing a remarkable job of concealing himself.”

“Remarkable, isn’t that him just all over,” Kiril huffed, abruptly taking the hand of a passing woman.

She looked at him quizzically, before smiling and staring wordlessly: starry-eyed.

“If you find him before I do,” he continued into his phone, leading the woman along with him, “tell him I said hi.”

“Just stay out of this,” Narumi warned. “I mean i…”

But Kiril hung up and tucked his phone away, focusing on his present company.

“Hungry?”

__________

 In the darkness of my apartment, I’m alone again with Sebastian. Murmuring a mixture of concern and how much trouble I am, he helps me to the bedroom and sits me down on the end of the bed.

“I’ll get you some water,” he says in a low voice, his hand still resting on my shoulder. “Think you can get undressed by yourself?”

There is nothing untoward about his question, not even a hinting undercurrent of lust; he could take advantage, but he doesn’t – that’s the kind of man he is.

“It’s not so bad anymore,” I reply, slowly sliding the jacket from my shoulders.

No sudden moves just the same.

“I’d say you’re working too hard, but I know that’s in your nature, so, what’s going on?” he questions, and though it’s dim I can see him frowning. “In the year and a half I’ve known you, you’ve never had so much as a sniffle.”

“There is the whole best friend missing and nearly getting run over thing,” I point out a little snappishly, but it’s a measure of my low tolerance levels rather than any actual anger I have toward him. “I’m sorry, Sebastian, I don’t know – I just have this terrible feeling something horrible has happened Jazz, that I’m so close to finding her but she’s just beyond me reach.”

Blinking, I find my cheeks wet again, and Sebastian gently wipes his thumbs across my cheeks.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, and though he’s a seriously impressive looking man, this inquiry leaves his lips unsure, tentative.

If I was able to think more clearly, I would certainly challenge him; though we care for one another as friends, he made it clear very early on our relationship beyond that was just physical: a way for us to relieve some of the tension in our lives without romantic entanglements and all the obligations that come with. He has never stayed and never asked to, always leaving when we’re both satisfied.

Saying yes might lead to something I don’t need, but I know right now I don’t want to be alone.

My chin drops forward before lifting again, and the warmth of his palm cupping one cheek is a reassurance I’m grateful for.

“Okay,” he smiles simply, crouching a moment to unzip my boots and slide them away. “Hop into bed, I’ll get you that water and be right back.”

Sighing, I undress to my panties and slip a t-shirt on – normally Sebastian wouldn’t get to see such a thing, the Miho ‘home-body’ in her unflattering night clothes, but it’s not something I worry about.

What I want is to be held, and stroked, and told everything will be okay – that I’ll wake up tomorrow and Jazz will be back, no harm done, and this blasted headache will be long gone.

Wordlessly upon his return, Sebastian strips down to his underwear and joins me beneath the duvet, leaving me no time to appreciate the stirring cut of his physique. Instead, I settle for the strong coil of his arms around me, and snuggle against his firm chest, inhaling slowly.

“Just close your eyes,” he whispers into my hair, but it’s not his voice I hear.

Kiril Lambert.

His are the fingers weaving softly through my hair, his breath against the side of my head, his ankles entwined with mine. Just as it had, sitting across from him in the booth with my wrist in his grip, the pain my skull abates, and I am left with a slowly growing ball of tension in my stomach.

“You okay?” Sebastian queries, leaning his head back.

My answer is to kiss him, a slow and searching notion, probing for interest.

The tense of his body and then the smooth of his hands down to the small of my back is his response, but he ends the dance of our tongues.

“I don’t think this is what you need right now,” he tells me, but his body is already telling me what he needs.

“I don’t want to think,” I hiss, my voice a little hoarse, and his response to the trail of my fingers to the band of his boxer briefs and beneath is to clench his jaw. “So get naked and fuck me.”

These words are the kind of vulgar imperative I might use in a moment of passion to provoke him, not the kind of thing one says while vulnerable; but I can’t help it, I suddenly need it.

Also surprised he hesitates, but not for long when I palm him firmly and bite into his lower lip, at which point Kiril takes hold of the hem of my t-shirt and tears it all the way to my throat.

Yep.

It’s Kiril Lambert’s weight I feel pressing over me, and into me not long after, his shoulder-blades I’m digging my fingernails into and his hips my legs are wrapped around. Gentle at first, I feel he doesn’t want to hurt me but is definitely holding back – he needs encouragement, and my teeth sinking into the taut flesh of his shoulder and the arch of my body to deepen our contact provides this.

The night is a heavy blanket that hides us from each other’s sight, but through the fierce thrust and grab, and the heady thickness of panting breaths and desirous moans, I can clearly see the ravenous depths of Kiril’s gaze by which I am willingly consumed.

PART 2

[wesker20]

Fallen Hero 1.5 Episode 13 Revenge: One Month Later

Episode 12: The Rise of Sidestep Part 2: My Name...

           One Month Later…

           You got to give credit to Zeta. He’s patient. One month and nothing. Not a zip. Just silence. So much silence that you have returned to your deeds as Mastermind as if everything was normal. Your crew seems more comfortable with you. Or less uncomfortable with you. They seem to have accepted what you did at Bloodmoon or at the very least don’t think about it that much. Surely Jane’s presence has helped with that too. She is the more approachable part of you after all.

           Argent has been on your ass lately too. She seems a bit more pissed off compared to your earlier encounters. More determined. But not as much as you expected taking into consideration what happened at Bloodmoon.

           Red Doll is another one. She has taken to chasing you like a dog chasing a bone. Only that instead of playing with the bone the dog wants to tear it apart, burn it to ashes, and then throw the ashes on a volcano. And that’s on top of all the other vigilantes who now chase you, not just because they want to get a reputation now, but because they now have a reason to hate your guts. If it was reputation as a bona fide villain that you wanted, you have it.

           The underworld, on the other hand, has changed their tune and now you are practically the boogeyman. All of the gangs that took your name suddenly disappeared and new gangs emerged to take their place; gangs composed of former members of the previous gangs.

           All in all, you are not sure whether to hug Zeta for his unintentional help with the underworld, or strangle him for making your current life a living hell with all of Los Diablos heroes on your ass.

           Rangers HQ – Kitchen

           “Everything alright?” Ortega asks, bringing you back into reality. Well, the present reality rather than the past reality.

           “Yeah, I’m fine. Just, thinking,” you tell her, which is not that much of a lie. These chats have become something of a welcome distraction lately. Whenever you are not planning for your next hit, or waiting for Zeta to make his move, you have come here to either talk or help out however you could. Kept you away from thinking too much about other things. Thinking about other memories…

           “What about?”

           “Well, a lot. You with all the stuff that’s been happening in the last couple of months.” She stares at you with a soft look, almost as if processing everything that has indeed happened.

           She chuckles. “Don’t break your head over it. Trust me.”

           “Speaking from experience?” you say with a smirk. She probably is.

           “Yeah…” she sighs.

           You wonder if you should ask her about it. She was not there but she still saw the end result. And Argent was there too. You know you would not want anyone to witness that, let alone one of your friends. “Want to talk about it?” you finally say dropping your casual tone.

           “There’s not much to talk about. I wasn’t there. Angie was, and… well… she’s not exactly sharing it.” In her shoes you wouldn’t. You can barely think about it without shivering. Or at least you used to. Now you feel… nothing. Almost as if those emotions have been hidden away or gotten erased. You wonder if it has to do with the fact you were the one responsible for Bloodmoon.

           “Never took Argent for a sharer.”

           “She really isn’t,” she begins and pauses, looking at you with a quizzical look on her face. “A lot like you actually.”

           You chuckle a bit. “Really? How?”

           “You are both always so reserved and closed. Like try to live a little but no, you prefer that tiny little world of yours. Powers away, you two are lot alike.” She takes a sip of her drink.

           “If I didn’t knew you any better, I’d say you were trying to set us up,” you joke, taking a sip of your drink, hiding your chuckle.

           She spits drink, laughing. “Oh god, no,” she begins taking a napkin to clean herself up. “That would be so hard, just to get you two to…” she stops herself, tapping her chin as if deep in thought. “Although…”

           “No!” you cut her off a little too quickly.

           She simply smiles. “oh come on.”

           “No. I’m an asshole and I can barely deal with myself. Let alone two assholes. Besides last I checked I wasn’t even worth a glance.”

           “Angie is not…” she taps her chin. “Ok yeah, she can be. But trust me, once you get on her good side, she’s actually very sweet. Again, kind of like-”

           “Don’t say it,” you cut her off, eating the last piece of your chocolate bar and throwing the paper at the trashcan. “I’m not interested.”

           “Sure you are. Who are you lying to,” a third voice chimes in. The last voice you wanted to hear today. Jane’s voice. Or rather, the Jane from your head. “Be honest. You want to get on with that silver lady, rip her clothes off and see that sexy body. You want to feel that skin on yours like a-” ‘stop it’ you tell her mentally. At least one thing you have learned in the last month about her.

           “Besides, since when do you play matchmaker?”

           “Since I’ve had to deal with you two idiots,” she chuckles. You put your hand on your chest, faking offense.

           “Julia Ortega, you wound me.” She laughs and takes another sip.

“I’m honest. You need some social life, she needs a social life. You were practically made for each other.”

“I fail to see how that would even work. Besides she’s not my type.” At that Ortega completely spills over her drink.

“You want me remind you of Luna?” Oh god no. Not that. Luna is an assassin you fought back in your Sidestep days. She was hired to kill some business men, and you, like the naïve idiot that you were, jumped in to protect them. Sufficient to say you two did have something of a chemistry. Nothing came of it, of course, but Ortega always teased you about it, even threatened to take a picture and post it on the fridge once. As for her mission, Luna was not known to fail, and fail she did not. One of your several loses you could say. You shake your head in shame as Ortega laughs again.

Silence overtakes for several minutes before a wonder comes to mind. “By the way, where’s Herald?”

           “Where else, in a press conference with the Mayor regarding the last couple of months.”

           “Poor kid. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

           “Still remember the days when I was the one there?.” You simply nod. Ortega was always called to represent the Rangers and you were always dragged into it; unless you wanted to stay alone with Steel. You made sure to keep yourself hidden so that they wouldn’t find you, but that did not protect you from the reporters, politicians, and others. You feel pity for Herald, even if he looks good on camera and can probably take it, playing second fiddle to the Mayor is never pretty.

           “Remember how we always had to sneak away ‘cause your fans would surround us?” you tell her.

           She laughs. “Yeah. My favorite one was when we had to use the bike to get away.” You groan at the memory. Ortega was the driver and you were the unfortunate passenger. You never let Ortega drive you in a bike ever again after that.

           “You mean the time you nearly killed us?” you chuckle.

           “Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad.” You simply stare at her, wishing that you could get in her head to pass on the memory of the day. But it seems the look on your face says it all. “Alright, maybe it was that bad. But admit it, you had fun.”

           “Definitely more fun than your disappointed fans.”

           “Yeah. Surprised I still have some.”

           “You do?”

           She nods. “Yeah. Hell, couple of days ago this journalist came and told me he was a fan.”

           “huh, Journalist?”

           “Yeah, an independent one. He has some magazine apparently.” You sigh while smiling.

           “Guess you still have it even in your old age,” you tease. You immediately raise your hands in surrender as she stares at you. “Don’t shoot me,” you say and the two of you just laugh it off. “What’s the name of the magazine anyway? Maybe I’ll check it out.”

           “It was…” she taps her chin trying to remember. “…ta. Something with ta. Ta, ta, ta. Zeta magazine.” You feel your heart stop beating, your body freezes over, and the smile you had been sporting up until now fades into a straight line. You manage to hide it all from Ortega and continue.

           “What did he looked like?” Please don’t say smaller than me with brown hair. Please don’t say smaller me with brown hair.

           “He was small. Smaller than you actually. And brown hair. Dressed with a white long sleeves shirt.” Your stomach twists and turns. Her voice fades away, everything fades away as you lock yourself in your mind. He was here, Zeta was here. And he spoke to Ortega. Why?

           “-member the name, sorry.” Ortega’s voice brings you back to reality. “Everything alright?”

           “Yeah, yeah. I just remembered something.”

           “Anything important?” you shake your head.

           “I’ll be going now. Tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day.” It really will be now.

           “Sure. I’ll take you to the entrance.” You feel the instant need to tell her you know the way. But that would just raise some eyebrows and reveal how nervous you are, so you let her.

           The walk to the entrance is painful, you count every second that passes, every breath you take, and the people in your way just irritate you beyond believe.

           “Well good news is your plan worked,” you hear Jane’s voice right next to you, keeping up with you as a third invisible member to your walk. “Bad news is you should have expected it to be something like this.” You don’t even bother to answer her. You know. You should have predicted this. But you didn’t. You expected him to maybe attack someplace else, maybe give you a call threatening you. You never expected him to actually go after the Rangers. It’s suicide if he wishes to remain unnoticed.

           You arrive at the entrance and give your goodbyes to Julia. You wait for her to get as far away as possible before you begin your desperate sprint out. You don’t bother to excuse yourself as you bump into everyone outside, they do not matter at the moment. You have to get back to your hideout and plan out your next move. You’ve had one month to think it up, but you could barely come up with something without knowing what Zeta would try next. Now that you have an idea, you can get something.

           He came to Ranger and talked to Julia, specifically her. No doubt because he knows what you two had. So what was his purpose? Information gathering? Makes sense with his cover as an independent journalist. But then why did he name his magazine after himself? That’s just stupid, straight up sloppy. You don’t use something that obvious unless… unless you are not trying to hide. Unless you expect the person to relay the name to an intended target.

           Your phone rings. Damn it, who could be now. You grab the phone and look at the number. Unknown…

           You push ‘send’ and slowly raise it to your ear. “What!?” you say, your voice bitter.

           “I like your friend Ortega. She reminds me a lot of Alpha. I see why you fell for her.” your heart stops again as you try to hold back whatever this is that’s rising through your body. “I can see why you replaced Alpha with her.”

           “I did not replace anyone.”

           “Yes you did. The rangers, that crew of worthless criminals? They are all replacements for us. Your team. The team you destroyed.”

           “I-” you begin but the words stay on your throat.

           “If you haven’t been wishing for all of those things you wouldn’t have had to replace us at all because nothing would have happened. We would have all stayed together and alive.”

           “I told you to come with me. You refused.”

           “Because I told you that there was nothing for us out here. And even if there was, there was no escaping the farm. I mean look at you. You escaped and got captured anyway.” You gulp. The memories of those days coming back to you, but you bury them down. “and now you are a villain, hurting people like that Red Doll girl. You remember her boyfriend, right? How you crushed his skull with your bare hands?”

           “What do you want Zeta? If you want me dead I’m right here.” You hear him laughing at the other end.

           “You don’t deserve death. Death is a rest. It’s a better alternative than what happened to Alpha. You don’t deserve that rest. No. I want your whole world to collapse on you and for you to sit on that empty world with nothing at the end. Starting now.”

           “What do you mean?”

           “I want to play a game, Jeremy.” He says your name with mockery, as if it a filthy thing to say. Your name. Her name. Her gift. “I call it, how fast can you save your friends without them noticing. I mean you could tell them. But then you would have to explain to them who I am and why I’m after you. And how I was sneaky enough to set up a bomb inside their headquarters.” You feel yourself choking.

           “What!”

           “I put a bomb. Don’t disarm it, and it goes boom, adios half of Rangers HQ and about 10 miles worth of streets and people. Disarm it, and you still have to get it out without anybody noticing. Again, unless you are willing to explain it all to them, it makes no difference to me. And because I’m feeling generous today I’ll give you a general area to search. The bomb is in the visitors’ area. Yeah, I know. Not the most structurally important site, and trust me if it was up to me I would have set it deeper but, you know, security in there is more than even I can handle. And besides what fun is a game if I put it in an impossible area for you to reach. Good luck. You have about thirty minutes before everything goes kabloom.” Before you can answer the line goes dead.

           Thirty minutes. Julia is probably still in the visitors area, and even if she wasn’t, she is still probably close to it. Ten miles radius. You have a slight idea what bomb he is talking about. Another bomb they taught you to build at the farm, meaning that you could disarm it.

           “Wo, wo, wo. Hold on a second there,” the Jane presence shows herself again. “You are not going to play his game are you?”

           “Does it look like I have a choice?”

           “Yeah, you do. Turn around and walk away. It’s not your problem their security sucks.”

           You stare at her in disbelieve. And then turn back to the building and prepare to walk in, ignoring Jane’s outburst about how you are going to get yourself, and in turn her, killed. And she just might be right.

           Shit.

           You barge through the front door, once again not excusing yourself from bumping into everyone. Whatever you do, you can’t let Julia, Argent, or Steel see you. Thankfully, or not depending on your point of view, the building is crowded today. Probably has something to do with that press conference. You head straight for the visitors area, not a second to waste.

             Now at the visitors’ area what’s left is to figure out where the bomb is. You can’t blindly search for it; it would be a waste of time to do so, especially with the building so crowded. Think, think, think. Where would Zeta put it, where would you put it?

           You replay the conversation in your head, trying to find a clue. A hint. A slip, anything. You check your clock, eight minutes have passed since the call. You may only have twenty two minutes, maybe less if you account for the lost time in the conversation. It has to be something small so that Zeta could have snuck it in. But even small there is the risk of someone finding it, so he would need to put it in a place where no one but you would find it.

           Shit. You have nothing. Every area you have visited has spots where it could be found. Maybe up. No, you look up but the ceiling is one piece. No way to tear one part off and plant a bomb. The builders here took precautions. Then Jane screams to you.

           “Idiot, can’t you feel that!?” indeed you do. A certain mind that you would recognize anywhere: Argent.

           You immediately hide behind a crowd. You hope her vision does not notice you, or if it does, it confuses you with the others. You are not certain it will work but you have to try. If she finds you, even if she ignores you, she would probably tell Julia and she thinks you are already out. You see Argent pass through the crowd, ignoring several of them, and thankfully steps into an elevator. You breathe a sigh of relief. But not for long, bomb, still counting. You check your clock: you have lost four more minutes. eighteen minutes or less. Shit.

           You force yourself through the crowd, heart pumping, sweat sliding down your forehead. Where, where, where, where, where, where, where, where, where, where, where, WHERE, WHERE, WHERE, WHERE, WHERE, WHERE, WHERE, WHERE, WHERE… you can’t think, you can’t, not with all these thoughts overwhelming you, all of these people. You had forgotten how much you hated crowds for this exact reason. Their worthless worries creeping into your head like worms, overtaking you, blind to the danger that they are in. They scream and yell, moan and whine about how unfair everything is when they have a FUCKING BOMB THAT WILL KILL THEM ALL. SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!

           “You shut up you idiot,” Jane’s voice echoes in your head. You feel her hand on your shoulder and turn to see her. “If you use your powers here you will be found. Keep it quiet. Breath.” You obey her. “Breath. Now calm down and think. I’ll block them out.” You don’t bother questioning her. So far she has only been able to manifest, but not use your powers. How will she block them? You don’t understand but it works, their thoughts vanish from your mind. Even your more negatives thoughts disappear, as if hidden away, only reason, pure cold logic and reason. You realize the answer was in front of you all along.

           The kitchen, the place you have visited the most, where you always end up in, where you have spent all your talks with Julia, and even Herald. However it has many spots where it could be found, Zeta had to hide it in one place no one would check. Under the sink? No, if something broke, they would call someone to fix it and they would check it. Under the table even less, anyone can check that. Inside the fridge? Argent would have found it by now, and something tells you Zeta would have noticed too. Behind the fridge? Like the sink if the fridge broke, they would move it and find it. But it does have more possibility.

           You arrive at the kitchen with eight minutes to spare. Thankfully no one was here. Before checking behind the fridge you check on your eliminated possibilities just to be certain. As you expected neither under the table nor the kitchen sink. You check behind and you hear it, a slow beeping. Low enough to be covered by the fridge’s motor but clear enough if you are looking for it.

           You check outside, making sure no one is coming. You check for cameras. There are cameras but you notice they are off. All but one. Shit. Zeta is watching you. You make sure to flip him off just to release some of the fury you are feeling right now. You begin moving the damn thing as much as possible. Damn, it’s heavy. Even as empty of snacks as it is right now, it’s probably the heaviest thing you have had to move out of your suit in a while. Oh how you miss your suit right now. You could have moved out this thing like a toy. But alas, you can’t. So you hold onto it, bite the scream of your muscles away and pull the fridge away from the wall. Not by much, but enough that you can squeeze through and with an outstretched arm you grab it.

           You can’t describe what you are feeling right now, your heart begins beating again, air flows through your lungs again. Finally you can disarm this thing and get it over wi-

           “Oh shit,” both you and the Jane presence say at the same time as you stare at the bomb. Same type of bomb you were taught to make. You could disarm it with your eyes folded. Or in your sleep. That’s not the problem. The problem with this one versus the one he set in your hide out is simple: the substance. The nitro. The formula is highly explosive. After a certain amount of sudden movements it can explode: with or without detonator. So not only do you have to disarm this thing, you have to carry out the bottle with the substance, making sure not to make too many sudden movements, in a place filled to the brim with people, and then find a way to get rid of it. You take a deep breath. You need it.

           As you expected your work is done almost as fast as you begin, little more than thirty seconds to disarm the detonator. Now all you have to do get this highly explosive agent out of the building. Easy…

           You put the detonator on one of your pockets. You grab the agent and put your hand inside one of your pockets. You take another breath. At least you no longer have a ticking clock.

           You step slowly out of the kitchen, making sure there is no Ranger in the distance. You turn on your ‘don’t look at me’ aura and another ‘get out of my way aura’ to ensure your survival and theirs. Not that is easy. The place is still filled to the brim and people are not fast enough to get out of your way. So you are forced to take each and every step with careful consideration, keeping an eye out for any stray thoughts that may come from any of the rangers. Well except Julia. You can’t feel her…

Shit! You forgot about that!

           You breathe again, calming down. You’ll come up with something to say if you find her, you are capable of that much at least.

           You continue your way, going through the crowd and into the elevator, which fills just as much. You glue yourself to the corner, making sure no one can bump into you. You step out of the Elevator without missing a beat. That’s it, you are close to the lobby. Just several meters more and then…

           You bump into someone. Your heart stops, your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your body freezes…            “Watch where you are going!” the man yells at you before moving on. You don’t quite process his words. Your mind still realizing you are alive and unharmed. For now.

           “OK, we are fine and dandy. Now move it!” Jane says. You don’t have to be told twice. You head for the entrance and finally walk out and down the steps. Yes! You did it! You are out. Now to get rid of it. You can go to one of the docks and throw it away. Or maybe keep it and use it in the future. It’s not every day you get this kind of explosive. Either way, you are out and now all that’s left is to…

           You feel the shockwave before hearing the boom. A thundering boom that breaks through your ears. An explosion, far from here. The shockwave takes you down into the pavement. The nitro falls out of your hands. You watch as it bounces once. You don’t wait to see it bounce away you stand up and run back to Rangers HQ, far away, before…

           You don’t hear this explosion. Instead you feel it. You turn just in time for the shockwave to hit you in the stomach, sending you through the entrance and into the lobby. You cover your face by instinct, as glass digs into your back and arms. You roll on the ground and hit something. You don’t know what but it stops you from rolling. Somehow you don’t lose consciousness. Not that it matters.

Your body screams in agony, your vision blurs, and the last thing you want is to get up. But you do. Using your training you push through the pain, ignoring it, switching it off for now. You don’t need it. Right now what you need is to get your head back in the game. Your vision clears and you see the mess. Debris and glass everywhere. People bloodied, some of them on the ground, whether dead or unconscious, you can’t tell.

“Medics, get here and help these people,” you hear the familiar voice of Steel. You turn to see him helping some people while ordering security. Well no need to hide this time at least. You stumble down but you feel a hand grab you before you fall, a silver hand. Argent.

You turn to see her staring down on you and helping you to sit. “Hey there. How’s your day?” you joke because that’s the only thing that will keep you sane right now.

“I don’t know. You tell me. You look worse than Ortega on a bad day.”

“Ah, finally decided to talk to me? Nice. All it took was an explosion.”

“Keep talking and I’ll drop you on your head.”

“Duly noted.”

“Stay here. I’m sure Julia is on the way.” She doesn’t stop to see your nod, heading towards Steel who relays some orders to her.

“Jeremy!” And there’s Julia. “What are you doing here?”

“Had to go to the bathroom so I came back and… well you take a look.” It was as good an excuse as you could muster at the moment.

“What happened?” she asks, taking a more professional tone, but still clearly worried.

“I heard one explosion. Far off. I don’t know where. Next thing I know I was flying through the door.”

“There were two?” she asks. You nod. She turns and calls for Steel. He looks at you with that same unreadable face that he always has.

“What is it?” he asks.

“There were two explosions. One was far off.” She tells him. Steel remains thoughtful for a second before turning to you.

“Do you remember the direction of the explosion?” you shake your head. You barely even had time to process there was one. “Try to think. From which side did you heard it?” you do as he says because, as hurt as you are, you are just as curious to know where that other explosion came from. And you get the sense Steel is on to something. You think back to your position, you were looking towards the street, back to the entrance. You heard the boom from your left ear. But you just told Julia you were heading in, so you can’t tell Steel you were heading out.

“I was heading into the building again,” you begin, he listens without an expression. “Right side. I heard the first explosion on my right.” Both Steel’s and Julia’s eyes widen and they look at each other. “What?” you ask, although you might have figured out the answer. Julia turns to you.

“That direction?” she points sheepishly. You nod. “That’s the direction of the-.”

“The press conference,” you cut her off.

Shit…

Episode 14 Revenge: The Voice

[stupendousshepherdloverpony]

Bucky Barnes X reader

Insurance: chapter 3

Summary; Reader has also met Pierce who has confirmed her situation of being a toy to the ‘Asset’. She has seen what Bucky looks like, but has been put into another isolated room. Awaiting his return from a mission.

Warning: mention of blood, slight violence, smut finally 😉

———————————————————

Y/N POV;

It’s been three days. Three days since Iv been locked in this room, awaiting the Asset to return. The room itself was slightly better than the one I first experienced. The bathroom was the same, but with a few extra products for the shower along with a cabinet. There wasn’t much inside, a toothbrush, tooth paste and a hair brush. Clearly they wanted me to remain in at least decent condition for the asset. Just like the last room there was a wardrobe full with grey tops, shorts and a whole manner of different lingerie types. I couldn’t even name half of them, there was so many! It was irritating to admit that some of them were pretty, but it doesn’t mean I wanted to wear them. The ones Iv had on were incredibly uncomfortable so far. Next to the wardrobe was a desk with a few old books, next to that a laundry basket and finally there was the bed. This was the biggest shock. Instead of the shitty, thin, worn down bed in the other room this one was a king size with a few pillows and different thickness blankets. This would make sleep easier, if it wasn’t for the paranoid state I was constantly in.

On the forth day I was awoken by my daily breakfast being delivered by a silent agent. They never once spoke to me, despite my tries. This usually consisted of a bottle of water, an apple and a plastic bowl of oatmeal along with a plastic spoon. I would receive another meal at what I could guess was around 5 o’clock, of course I couldn’t tell as there was no clock or window. The ‘supper’ was simply another bottle of water and a sandwich.

After eating the food I slid the bowl back through the doors latch and without a word the agent left me alone. I placed my apple on the desk to save for later in the day, and I sat down in the middle of the bed.

As what felt around mid day, I was reading one of the books HYDRA had oh so kindly provided me with when I was interrupted by the blaring of an alarm. The sudden piercing noise shocked me so much I jumped slightly with a yelp, to which I quickly covered my mouth in a poor attempt to hide my embarrassment. A thundering hoard of footsteps could be heard running back and forth through the hall. I stood up from my seated position on the bed and put my book back on the desk. Before I could even go closer to the door it swung open and in matched a single agent who I had never seen before. The man gave me a cold stare before stating “The Asset will arrive in 10 minutes. Be prepared” and with that he sauntered out the room.

Blinking in shock, my hands began to shake, ‘holy shit, what do I do?!’ Panic began to flood through my veins as I scrambled to make the ‘room’ as neat as possible, who knows what he will be thinking when entering the room. I decided to change into a clean shirt and shorts, accompanied by a baby blue one piece lingerie. If it were not for the sheer lace material one might mistake it for a swimmer, that is, one with an incredibly low back and deep V line at the front. ‘Thank god for these baggy tops’ I thought to myself. As time began to run out on my little preparations, I sat down on the edge of the bed, with my back straight and hands in my lap. After what felt like a century, the door swung open and someone was shoved through. The door slamming shut once again.

I could tell it was the Asset, aside from his unmistakable metal arm and leather tactile gear, I recognised his relatively long brown hair, if I was in any other position I’d be longing to run my fingers through it. His hair looked so soft, despite the obvious debris in it. As I trailed my eyes up his body, a pink hue overtook my cheeks as I realised he caught me staring. The most intense, steel blue eyes I’d ever seen were staring back at me. They looked dead, soulless despite their beauty. It was almost poetic how contradicting they were compared to the rest of him. His obviously sharp jaw line was covered by a black mask, which went from below his chin to the bridge of his nose. This made his stare all the more deadly, causing me to shrink back into myself, wishing I was invisible.

After an intense staring contest the Asset stalking his way into the bathroom, not sparing me another glance until he returned with a medical kid I noticed hidden in the cabinet on my second day. I yelped as he dropped the kit onto my lap as he began to take off his gear. Only then did I notice the intense bleeding coming from his right side. My eyes widened in horror while he finished his little strip show, leaving him in a white tank top and his trousers. I stood up and tried to back away before he caught my arm, muttering in a deep rough voice “Очисти мою рану” (Clean my wound). I only stared at him confused, not knowing a word of what he just said. The Asset let out a grunt before sitting down in my previous spot on the bed. “Вы русский язык знаете?” (Do you know Russian?) He muttered, followed by “конечно нет. Вы, кажется, невинны, гораздо больше, чем ГИДРА” (Of course not. You seem innocent, much more than HYDRA). He opened the medical kit and grabbed my hand, ignoring my pathetic struggles and put my hand on the equipment before pointing to his bleeding side. I muttered a small ‘Oh’ before realising he wanted me to help his injury. I took out a cleaning wipe and gauze along with a needle, not knowing if he needed stitches I gave him a questioning look which he shook his head ‘no’ to. Hoping that meant I didn’t need to use it, I tentatively lifted up his shirt and began to wipe away the blood. I could tell he was watching me, his calculating eyes made me almost squirm in my uncomfortable, hunt he’d position. After cleaning as best as I could I positioned the gauze over the wound before swiftly standing straight again.

The Asset copied me, standing up and towering above my meek frame. He brushed past me with an unreadable look, grabbing a change of clothes from closet before grabbing the medical kit and returning to the bathroom. The sound of the door closing and the barely audible sound of water indicated he was showering. I retreated back to the far side of the bed, slowly sinking down and attempting to gather my thoughts. ‘What the fuck was that all about?! He didn’t seem to bad though...maybe he doesn’t want to hurt me’. I hummed to myself I’m distraction as the doors latch opened without a word and 2 trays of food where shoved inside, ‘it must be in the evening’. I made my way over and picked both up, placing the Assets good on the desk and I slid down the wall, the furthest side from the bathroom and began to eat in silence.

After a few minutes the sound of running water stopped before the bathroom door opened and to my shock, revealed a naked Adonis of a man with only a towel around his waist. He was soaked, trails of water dripping from his hair down to his chest, oh god his chest! Perfectly ripped abs and a distinctive V line drew my attention while the water made him glisten in the dim lighting. Small scars and cuts were scattered across his chest, my eyes drifted up to the edges of his metal arm. The amount of scar tissues shocked me slightly, and a huge surge of remorse and sadness welled up inside me. The sound of a throat clearing snapped me out of my daze and my eyes snapped up to his, only to be met with a harsh glare. I flinched at the cold stare and blurted out “I wasn’t staring!” ‘Great’ I thought to myself. ‘The first words I speak to a potentially deadly, extremely sexy yet terrifying assassin was a down right, blatant lie’. The asset looked as if he wanted to give me an amused look, but instead opted to hardening his stare.

I shyly looked away from him, his eyes piercing me while I flushed red in a poor attempt to stop my staring. “Come here, маленький котенок” (little kitten). I was shocked to hear him speak English, but then again, HYDRA is a world wide organisations. They must have the best resources, the best of the best fighters, which entitles the knowledge of different languages. I must of gotten side tracked (again) because I heard a grunt of irritation. I shot up off the ground, taking shaking steps until I was a foot away from him. I refused to meet his eyes, not even when he laid a metal hand on my shoulder and applied a small amount of pressure. “On your knees, маленький котенок”. I gulped before slowly kneeling before him, big doe eyes staring up at him below my eyelashes. I knew that if I were to disobey, he could kill me instantly. I could almost see the thoughts swirling behind his eyes while he stared down at me in concentration. His metal hand moved up to cup the right side of my face, his ‘thumb’ tracing over my cheek bone, over my lips before going back up to rest behind the back of my head. I was startled at the sound of a snap before my hair feel from it’s pony tail and it drifted in front of my eyes. Before I could even lift a hand the Asset beat me to it, grabbing my hair in his flesh hand and wrapping it around his wrist, suddenly yanking it back harshly earning him a gasp as I stretched my neck up towards him.

I stared at him with wide eyes as he bent down more towards my level, his face inches away from mine. I felt my face flush pink as his eyes roamed over my face, drinking in my almost submissive position. Apparently he found what he was searching as he sharply stood back up, he let go of my hair and walked around me to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. “Crawl towards me, маленький котенок” he muttered, his voice deep and raspy yet smooth as silk. Embarrassment flooded my veins as I slowly got down on my hands and knees, shuffling towards him until I was before his legs, sitting back on my heels between his legs I was growing more and more humiliated. This man, this practical GOD was ordering me around, so simply making me submit to him. I shouldn’t be enjoying this, yet I could feel the desire growing within me.

Suddenly the towel adorning his waist feel and I let out a squeak of shock before snapping my head to the side so to not look at his manhood. A cool sensation touched my cheek before turning my face back towards him, ignoring the huge distraction in close proximity to my face I stared him in the eyes. I’m no prude or snob, simply inexperienced. But it didn’t take a lot of experience to tell that he was bigger than the average man. In both length and thickness, this man was huge. The mere sight of his manhood sent me into a frenzy.

Bucky’s POV;

I felt a smug smirk stretch across my usually stoic face. This innocent little pet was a spectacular sight. Kneeling before me, to afraid or maybe to scared to look at my crotch. I felt my cock harden at the sight of her big doe eyes staring back at me, her very prominent hardened nipples peaking through the thin layers under her shirt. I almost wanted to laugh, she knew the potion she was in, physically and metaphorically. I had been previously told by my handlers that I would receive a toy, a girl I could do whatever I wished with. I could ruin her or treasure her, they would not care. As long as I don’t kill her then they can use her a leverage to make sure I return from missions and follow orders. Perhaps it would make my life more fun, maybe I could be more human instead of a killing machine. I have no remorse for all my actions, this is my purpose in life. I am told that I’m humanities last Hope. I will do my job as instructed.

I once again grasped her hair but this time turned her head down, forcing her face closer to my hardened member. “маленький котенок, be a good girl and suck” I commanded. There was a flash of horror in her eyes before she began to struggle to escape. She twisted in my hold but I easily overpowered her with my metal hand behind her head and flesh one reaching into my discarded gear and grabbing a plastic tie. I secured her hands behind her back before delivered a swift slap to her cheek with my flesh hand. I did this as a warning, hardly any strength going into the hit but it was enough to scare her to still her movements.

“A-asset please sto-“ I harshly interrupted her by wrapping my flesh hand around her throat roaring “DO NOT call me that! You will address me as sir, and only sir do you understand?!”

Y/N POV;

I let out a whimper of pain before he squeezed my throat even harder, hissing “ I said do you understand?”

“Yes sir! I understand” I all but whispered. He once again motioned me before his rock hard cock, so without much choice I leaned further down and poked out my tongue with a tentacle lick to the tip, taking the angry red dome into my mouth and swirling my tongue around. He let out a low growl before forcing my head deeper, I gagged at the sudden intrusion before licking and sucking as much as I could. Taking him as far as I could, with the little experience I had, I used my knowledge from my friends tales that I should pay extra attention to the slit on the tip. I hollowed out my cheeks as I licked over the slit, tasting his pre-cum. It was an infuriatingly divine taste, salty yet sweet. Bitter yet tangy.

My desire began to peak more as I began to such and lick even harder. I must of been doing well as the asset, or ‘sir’ began to thrust up into my mouth. “That’s it my little pet. Swallow me deep, we will have to work on your skills, it’s obvious your new to this. Doesn’t meen your doing a bad job маленький котенок, quite the opposite. You want me to cum down your throat don’t you? Your such an obedient toy. You deserve a reward.”

His dirty talk in a distinctive Brooklyn accent made me flush and the heat spreading across my body made me moan lowly around his cock. The moan must of tipped him over the edge as his fist tightened on my head, pushing me deeper than before and his huge length made me choke. With a sinful moan his cum shot out to the back of my throat, straight down into my stomach. The delicious taste flooded my mouth and I savoured as much as possible before being lifted back off him. I gasped and tried to catch my erratic breath, cum dripping down my chin as one (metal) hand reaches behind me to snap off the wrist ties and the other drawing almost caring circles on my cheek bone.

After a moment the realisation of what just happened sank him. I sucked an assassins cock, he spoke such filthy words to me. And worse of all, I enjoyed it. “Get to bed”. A simple command sent me going to the bed and slipping under in silence as ‘sir’ stood up and went to the bathroom, I’m assuming to clean up. I turned my back to the bathroom, curling my legs into my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I heard him step back one and he lay down behind me. I flinched when I felt his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling my back flush against his front. The only thing covering his modesty is a thin pair of shorts. His legs intertwined with mine, the last thing I heard before submerging into the abyss being “sleep tight little one, I have such plans for you.”

———————————————————

@darkficsyouneveraskedfor

@brazen88brat

@desdemonadeluna-blog

Im soooo sorry for the wait guys! Iv had an unexpected work load recently along with my friends wanting to meet more than usual. Not used to socialising so much! I hope this made up for it tho! 🖤

[quarantineroulette]

Seditions of You: An Interview with Filmmaker Joe Wakeman

Joe Wakeman’s second feature, The Shoplifters (not to be confused with the Palme d’Or-winning film of the same title, but hopefully SEOs are none the wiser) is “a series of tableaux depicting the follies of a group of naïve Marxist would-be radicals” striving to be revolutionaries, only to discover that “what they really want is to be seen wearing berets.” 

Although he began work on it a decade ago, The Shoplifters carries some very timely themes about online activism, consumerism, and the shallowness of modern culture as a whole. With fairly little effort, its thought-provoking vignettes resist passive cultural consumption and its stylistic fluidity keeps it visually stimulating as well. Its 70 minutes also offer a lot of seamless humor, from a slightly slapstick dressing room shoplift to a smart, satirical "revolutionary bake sale” in Washington Square Park.

Ahead of The Shoplifters’ appearance at the NewFilmmakers New York Film Festival on February 6, I spoke with Joe via email about collaborations, Maoist propaganda and Communism as fashion statement, among other fun topics. 

1) What ignited your interest in Marxism & Maoism? 

I've been interested in Marxism since I was a teenager, probably about when I was 13 and first encountered the politically inclined punk of The Sex Pistols and The Clash, and Dead Kennedys -- I think it's somewhat common for young suburbans to go through a "Communist" phase. What I didn't realize at the time was that my interest in Marxism was really less about politics, which admittedly I knew precious little about (though I do lean rather strongly to the left) and more about the iconography of Communism: I would go around with sickle and hammer belt buckles and spell "Revolution" with a backwards “R.” That sort of corny thing.

 Later on, when I was 18 or so, I saw Jean Luc Godard's La Chinoise and his Groupe Dziga Vertov films with Jean-Pierre Gorin, all beautifully boring films depicting sexy French Maoists who do very little real revolutionary activity, despite their ability to quote at length from Marxist texts. These films made it apparent to me that what we think of in the US as "Marxist," where Communism has never been a reality, is as much a set of fashion and cultural signifiers as is the uniform of a typical "Goth" or "Emo Kid" -- berets, fists in the air, shabby clothes, shiny boots and cigarettes. 

2) I believe you've mentioned that you started working on -- or had least conceived of -- The Shoplifters about 10 years ago? In what ways has it changed in that time? 

Yes, at that time my friend Taylor Bruck (who plays Che Smith in the film) and I were also sometimes engaged in the "cool crime of shoplifting." There was a certain politically oriented moral code about it, where it was okay to shoplift from big corporations like Barnes & Noble but not right to steal from local businesses. But after seeing the Godard films we talked about how goofy it would be to take those politics further and call ourselves "revolutionaries,” which became the kernel of the absurd story for The Shoplifters that we wrote together.

The original script had a lot more characters and more action, arsons and assassinations and a lengthy courtroom finale at the end, where the Shoplifters are put on trial for sedition and theft. All that sounds exciting, but keep in mind, this was the script of a teenager. It's really rather cringe-worthy to read today. I threw the whole thing out when I reworked the film, though a couple scenes survive: the opening speech and the fitting-room sequence, where we pile on layers of stolen clothes, are both from the original version of the movie. We tried to shoot scenes from that script at that time, when I was 18 years old, with some borrowed equipment from the TV studio I was working for at the time, but we shot on damaged tapes and botched the sound recording. The material was practically unusable so, dejected, I hung up The Shoplifters for awhile and dedicated myself to working on other things and developing more before taking another crack at it. 

3) Do you see The Shoplifters as sharing any similarities with your first feature, They Read By Night? Although stylistically different, they both seem to lovingly mock certain countercultures. I also like that they both have "nested" films within films (the short in They Read by Night and the music video and "Post-Capitalist Potential for Mass Education in the Internet Age" sequence in The Shoplifters).

Definitely. Actually They Read By Night was an attempt, after the first failure of The Shoplifters, to write a similar film on a smaller scale. I swapped out the berets for leather jackets and the characters became greaser-rock ‘n’ roller juvenile delinquents instead of revolutionaries, but the point is essentially the same -- that their so-called rebellion is still a symptom of capitalism, buying into another kind of "outsider" fashion. 

As for the films-within-the-film element, I've always been attached to the idea that a movie does not have to tell one story, or focus on the story, or even just be one type of film. This is the other big element learned from the likes of Godard and other counterculture filmmakers, Dusan Makavejev, Warhol et al. -- that the "plot" of a film is not so important as the ideas which animate it, and to express those ideas more in the form of a lively discussion that, in a movie, can be shown with images rather than just spoken with words. Let's make our characters watch a film together and see how they react, or in The Shoplifters they educate themselves about Mao Zedong by reading about the Cultural Revolution on Wikipedia and from there its a free-flowing association of images culminating in some psuedo-Greek philosophy. It's the kind of methodology that people experimented with in the ‘60s and you see less often today, though occasionally you do see it, in Sion Sono's excellent recent Antiporno. Or, actually, the web-browser screen cap stuff in The Shoplifters is inspired by the 2014 teen horror film Unfriended. It's kind of a limitation of the cinema's potential when a movie just tells you a story one way, unless the story is really good, like Titanic or something. 

  4) Both films also have musical sequences (the fight scene in They Read By Night and "Style Revolutionaries" in The Shoplifters). Given your involvement in the music scene here in Brooklyn (Joe is in the band Toyzanne, who you should definitely check out, and directs music videos as well), would you ever consider doing a musical?

I love musicals! They're a popular illustration of that same idea -- the story stops, and somebody sings a song that comments on it, or sometimes the song continues the story, or presents a separate situation which is analogous to the story. I was raised on musicals and I think they can still be cutting-edge as a genre, even though many might regard them as old-fashioned. I composed a lot of the music for The Shoplifters, together with DP Torey Cates and help from musician friends from the Brooklyn scene: Brendan Winick (also in Toyzanne), Frank Rathbone and Jenna Nelson (of Sic Tic), Kate Mohanty. Holly Overton and Sannety (who also stars in the film) contributed their unique stylings for different sections of the film as well. When I showed my friend John Sansone an early cut of the film, he remarked that he didn't realize that it was a "musical" which surprised me because there's no singing, (except for the Smiths cover and "Style Revolutionary"). But when I considered the role music plays in the film, it's really not too different from a musical in structure and tone, which was something that made me feel very happy about it. I'd like to eventually do a proper musical with lots of songs that plays with the genre in a more direct way, but I also don't think I'm mature enough yet as a filmmaker to attempt that.

5) How did the various collaborations in the film (the score, and the sequences from Oliver David and Preston Spurlock) come about? 

Oliver David had made two music videos, one for my old band Bodega Bay and one for ONWE that had this style of a slow-motion fashion advertisement for the bands. I really enjoyed these videos and wanted Oliver to do something of a "remake" of the same style, this time advertising the revolutionary cadre in the film instead of a rock ‘n’ roll band, making the not-so-subtle commentary even less so. Likewise, when I was preparing to make the film I became close friends with Preston Spurlock, who makes these mind-blowing video collages of old commercials and such that are like wading through cultural toxic waste dumps to tap into some unconscious reflections that can't be put into words. I connected these in my head to stuff like Godard's Histoire(s) du cinema or the work of Adam Curtis (HyperNormalisation, The Century of the Self) and thought they would add a lot to the dialogue of images I was trying to present in the film.

 I think that it's unimportant for an artist to be the "sole author" of a film. It is more interesting when I think, “Oh, Sannety can do things with electronic music that I don't even understand,” or “Oliver and Preston work in video in a completely different style from me which can form a relationship with my style, so why not ask them to contribute and make it a real dialogue rather than a constructed one.” I think collaboration is key in filmmaking -- it keeps the spirit of montage living through and through the work, which if you consider Eisenstein and Vertov, is really "Revolutionary" filmmaking. 6) I liked the criticisms of Internet activism the film presented. In the ego-driven realm of social media, do you feel there is any way for a pure act of protest or activism to thrive or even exist? 

Yes I do think real activism can exist and can even be given a lot of strength through the Internet and social media -- those things have leveled the playing field and given voice to marginalized communities who hadn’t had that kind of visibility before the advent of these networks. Community organizer Candice Fortin, introduced to me through Gwynn Galitzer and Suffragette City Magazine, is another voice present in the movie, in keeping with the collaborations that exist throughout the film. She explains activism in the modern era and what people can do to start enacting change very eloquently midway through the movie, and i don't think I can say it better than the way she did in the film. She is constantly posting about progressive candidates, organizations and other concerns through social media to bring about political change on a grassroots scale. You can follow her @candicefortin for a start, but mainly pay attention! These opportunities to help are all around. 7) Do you have a favorite piece of Maoist propaganda?

Yes! This Maoist ballet from the cultural revolution, encouraging women to form feminist revolutionary cadres: The Red Detachment of Women. You can watch it on Youtube. Footage from it appears in Preston Spurlock's section of the film, I think it's beautiful and absurd, but I think weirdly Old Hollywood despite its anti-Western screed, like An American in Paris or something but cheaper looking. I really get a kick out of it. Perhaps when this one-day musical comes to fruition I’ll dole out some political ballet as a quiet (or more likely, loud) nod.

The Shoplifters is screening as a part of the NewFilmmakers New York Film Festival at Anthology Film Archives on Feb. 6, 2019. RSVP here. 

[scratchface]

Fic Preview

Here’s the preview of the KHR AU I’ve been working on! You don’t need a ton of KHReborn knowledge, just know it involves the magical Mafia and the use a magic system called Flames, which come in different colors/types with different powers. It’s gonna be a multichaptered, plot-heavy fic, but I haven’t come up with a name yet. If y’all have any suggestions, I’m all ears.

Pairing: Datastormshipping/ Revsaku / RevYu

Warnings: Slash, violence, inappropriate flirting, sexual implications, shit-poor morals, and assault of all kinds.

It’s an ordinary day for Ryoken, up until it isn’t. Just a routine check on the progress of the men he had constricting the neighborhood. Typical grunt shit that he’s supposed to leave to the lesser capo, but it gives him an excuse to escape the Headquarters.

But the usual slog takes a turn for the interesting when his back meets the floor hard; the concrete almost as unforgiving as the cold steel nipping his neck. There’s the gleam of a switch knife in the bottom of his vision, but his eyes are caught the face of his assailant.

Green eyes blaze down on him, brilliant as untempered absinthe and just as intoxicating. A thrill of lust courses through his veins—a child’s fascination matured into unrelenting desire.

“Don’t move.” The man commands. He has a cold, firm voice that matches the uncomplicated ruthless manner with which he grips his knife. His fingers on the handle are steady, unshaken—and oh, he has such delicate hands, elegant even as one digs through Ryoken’s pockets for weapons.

He finds the pistol and the box weapons and he casts them to the side, well out of reach with a look of slight distaste. Ryoken mourns the loss of them, but has to appreciate the way the man’s brow furrows imperceptibly. With Ryoken apparently disarmed, the man gains confidence, and settles more firmly upon him—apparently not realizing he’s sitting right on Ryoken’s dick, but well, who’s complaining? It’s sadly not everyday he gets to be between a gorgeous man’s slender thighs.

Slowly, careful not to bring any attention to the movement, he twists his ring around so it faces the inside of his palm, hiding the infamous sigil from view. There’s little he can do about the tattoo on his hand, though.

The man is staring down at him balefully and speaks with a voice full of demanding disdain. “What is Hanoi doing here? What are you scum after?” Unbothered, Ryoken takes his opponent’s measure: jade eyes, green and black jacket, hood pulled over his hair, and a surgical mask obscuring his face. His assailant matches the description in the reports perfectly.

So, this is the infamous, dreaded Playmaker. Ryoken hadn’t thought he’d be so attractive.

“I feel like I should be asking that to you. This is our territory now.” Ryoken weighs his words carefully, but let's them flow casually. Playmaker’s eyes narrow, and he casts a brief glance around, obviously wary of the reminder of potential backup. Ryoken uses Playmaker’s distraction to shift his hand further, but he overestimates himself. In an instant, Playmaker's free hand seizes his own in a vice grip. His hand is warm and worn, fingers rough as he drags the tattoo into view.

“Spreading like rot.” Playmaker swipes his thumb over the triangle, and Ryoken feels a rush of heat going unfortunately south. The reports didn’t prepare him for this. “You’re important, then?” He’s never been so glad to be wearing the mask, which thankfully hides what must be a look of baffled arousal.

“Only if you want me to be.” Ryoken says, trying for disaffected. It comes out as breathy instead. The knife presses deeper, cutting into Ryoken’s skin, as Playmaker glares down at him. Ryoken forces himself to relax against the ground. He ignores the sharp pain by focusing on the warmth of the other’s hand on his own.

“Why is Hanoi here? What are you after?” He can feel blood sluggishly dripping down his neck. It’s such a small cut that it’s rather sexy. Ryoken’s heart is pounding for all the wrong reasons. “Answer me or I’ll slit your throat.”

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re here to liberate the people here from Sol.” He searches for Sol’s insignia on Playmaker’s clothes, but there’s nothing. Spectre’s suspicions about a third party’s involvement were right. “I could liberate you too, if you’d like.” Ryoken layers his voice with implications. It’s hard to tell in the low light and under Playmaker’s disguise, but there’s red flushing the edges of Playmaker’s face.

Sadly, Playmaker refuses to play along, with his eyes set on Ryoken’s mask. His grip on the knife is steady, but his grip on Ryoken’s hand loosens. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You scum are nothing but thugs.” He’s flustered, probably only just recognizing the compromising position they’re in. And that means he’s distracted.

“Got a bit of a grudge, do we?” Under his mask, Ryoken smirks, and his ring bursts into clear orange flame that has Playmaker flinching back with a pained yelp. But Ryoken doesn’t let him go, seizing his wrist to drag him back down and knocking the knife from Playmaker’s other hand with a viper-fast strike. He flips them with a firm jolt that has Playmaker underneath him, wrists pinned to the ground.

Ryoken likes this position just as much. His assailant struggles against him, and he shifts his weight forward to contain him. And, well, the resulting friction is its own perk. “If you wanted my attention all you had to do was bat those pretty eyes of yours and ask for it.”

Playmaker’s green eyes are wide and flickering between Ryoken’s mask and his blazing ring. “Sky Flames? You’re Revolver?” Ryoken appreciates how pale Playmaker goes as he realizes he was trapped under the dreaded Underboss of Hanoi.

“I’m a little insulted you didn't recognize me.” Ryoken leans in to get a better look at the elusive assassin plaguing his organization. With Playmaker bucking against him, he has no hands free to pull off the mask that was in the way. If he wasn’t wearing a mask himself, he could’ve used his mouth.

“Get off of me!” Playmaker snarls, jerking up in a rough, attempted head butt. Ryoken forced him back down with some effort. “I’m going to make you bastards pay for what you did to us!”

It’s one of those days, clearly. Ryoken laughs, as Revolver should, watching the assassin’s expression tense further in the face of his mockery. “You’re going to need to be more specific.” Misguided avengers were a dime a dozen in the Mafia. It was a little disappointing to find out the rumored Playmaker was just another fool.

At least he looks fantastic, squirming under Ryoken like a leashed beast. “After what you did to me, you dare—”

“Did I fuck you? No, that can’t be it.” Playmaker goes completely rigid, and Ryoken is having too much fun. “I would certainly,” he let his eyes drag up and down the svelte form settled underneath him, “remember that.” Playmaker flushes fully red, eyes wide. It’s a good look on him. “Though I would love to personally do some things to you right now.” Ryoken pushes his leg in between Playmaker’s and  punctuates his words with a deliberate, slow roll of his hips.

It feels fantastic, which probably just goes to show that Ryoken needs to get laid, instead of you know, molesting his enemy in a back-alley. He knows he should be doing the responsible thing and finding a way to end Playmaker’s miserable life, but at the same time, it seems his usual self-control has packed its bags and taken a vacation. He can’t seem to stop himself.

The fault of those damn, brilliant eyes, no doubt.

His assassin jerks forward again with a furious snarl, and the hood is left behind, revealing a crown of fiery locks. His hair looks like dancing flames, all vibrant yellow, orange and pink, and Ryoken is almost disappointed. It’s a stunning look, but he would have preferred blue.

Though the autumn colors are nice too, the winter tones were so much more appealing.

“Get off of me!” Playmaker attempts to twist out of his grip, snapping Ryoken out of his hormonal spiral, and it’s a struggle to keep hold of him. He makes some odd movements with his hands, something glinting off his fingers, and suddenly there’s something slicing into Ryoken’s wrist. It’s wire, thin as fishing line, and it bites into his skin painfully. Reflexively, he jerks his hand away and tries to pull the wire off with the other, and Playmaker’s foot lands solidly in his chest, shoving him off with a rough kick. Instead of constricting, the wire lengthens as Ryoken stumbles to his feet a meter away, and there’s luminous purple light enveloping Playmaker’s hands.

Cloud Flames, with the property of propagation. Playmaker could use his flames to make the wire grow to any length he needed. An interesting choice of weapon.

Ryoken couldn’t help but smile, even as he hooked a finger under the wire and and used the strength of his own Flames to snap it like a twig. Clouds always are the feistiest, and Ryoken has always had a bit of a soft spot for that.

Not wasting any time, Ryoken sprints for his gun and sweeps it off the concrete. It fits back in his hand like puzzle piece clicking into place, and he raises it to his opponent with the taste of victory on his tongue. Wire versus bullets hardly seems fair, but Ryoken’s never been one for mercy.

Playmaker is back on his feet as well, his chest heaving with each harsh breath and his brow twisted with fury. His sleeve has ridden up, revealing an unusual bracelet bearing what looked like a spool of thread. The bracelet blazes with violet fire, bursting forth from a ring on Playmaker’s finger.

And the whole world freezes. A shudder rakes through Ryoken’s body, and instinctively he takes a step back, his aim wavering. He can’t tear his eyes away from the ring.

“That’s—?”

It’s a silver band identical to his own, bearing the intricate crest of Hanoi: an scalene triangle constructed from six smaller triangles. The only difference being that while his crest was entirely amber, Playmaker’s was silver except for one single amethyst triangle.

Ryoken knew that ring. And he knew the one he gave that ring to would never give it to anyone else.

But there it was, alight with blazing violet flames on Playmaker’s finger.

“S—Six?” He hears himself say, over the roaring in his ears. Playmaker—Six?—shifts backwards, with a familiar look of alarm in his eyes, and Ryoken stumbles forward, his gun forgotten at his side. Playmaker takes another step back, and his arm snaps to the side, a fishing line complete with hook dangling from his fingertips. With one fierce slash, the hook is streaking towards Ryoken’s face, and he throws up an arm in reflex.

The attack doesn’t connect, and when Ryoken opens his eyes, Playmaker—Six?—is gone.

But Ryoken’s mind is spinning in wild circles. Green eyes, three things, ten years, revenge—

I finally found you again.

[ohnohetaliasues]

1+2p Hetalia High {Ch.1}

(Kat)

tHIS HAS 119 CHAPTERS.

199.

AM I GOING TO REVIEW EVERY ONE OF THEM? YES SIREE BOB. 

OH LORD.

Buckle up my children, we’re in for a wild ride and a brand new adventure.

Note: The full title of this story is “1p and 2p HetaliaxReader High school just got weirder” but since I don’t want to put that as my title, I’m just putting it as whatever I decided to put because at the moment of typing this I’m still not sure. 

I’m not sure how to feel about this. But here we go.

Also, this is a reader insert, so I’ll be putting ‘Kat’ when ‘y/n’ appears.

{Kat}'s POV

I woke up to my alarm blaring a familiar song. It was the F/A (Favorite Anime) opening. 

Coincidentally, I have the Ao no Exorcist opening set as my alarm right now. So I guess this fits?

It was impossible not to get up hearing that awesome song.

But also I must note that I do have to change my alarm every so often or I will have to resist the urge to smash my phone.

 I let it play while I got dressed. I picked out a S/F/C (Second favorite color) t-shirt, a F/C hoodie, black jeans, and some sneakers. 

Okay, a purple hoodie, which I don’t own, and a yellow shirt?

Ew.

Kill me.

If anyone sees me in real life in public dressed like that, you have full permission to assassinate me.

I took my headphones and phone and put them in my F/C backpack.

I have an Attack on Titan backpack.

We’re off to a fantastic start.

 I grabbed a piece of toast and ran out the door locking it behind me. "I'm gonna be late!" I said copying every slice of life anime ever. I eventually just started walking and ate my toast. I finished my toast and put on my headphones. I listened to some music as I walked to school. My name is {Kat} I'm 16 

Uh. I am 16. That much is true.

(Go with it) and go to Gakko (If you get it i'll give you a cookie :3) high school. 

Hi, my name is Kat, I’m 16, and I go to School High School. 

I've lived alone in my own house since my parents died and my Aunt decided that I could live in alone if I wanted to. She payed for the house and anything I needed.

That’s one nice aunt.

 She also gave me a card in case I wanted snacks or to go shopping. My Aunt was loaded so she didn't really care how much I spent. 

What, does she just have unlimited money? 

How convenient for me.

I walked up the steps of my high school. I wouldn't say that i'm a nerd or a geek

Bet.

 but I don't have many friends. It's not that i'm anti-social. 

I am.

I’m already losing my mind.

I'm just really picky I guess. I took off my headphones and walked into my classroom. I sat in my seat next to the window. I laughed as I remembered how I picked this seat to be like an anime character.

In my school, there is a thing called seating charts. 

Do they just not exist here?

 I put my bag on the ground and stared out the window. "Good morning class! Today we'll be introducing some new students." Ms. Drew chirped. I didn't really care so I continued to stare out the window. "Please introduce yourselves!" asked. "I'M ALFRED F. JONES! AND I'M THE HERO!" the person introduced. 

I would probably start cringing my face off if some new student just shouted that. 

I instantly turned my heads towards the loud voice. He has the same name and called himself the hero. It has to be him. My eyes widened in shock as I saw the blonde haired blue eyed person I watched on my laptop. ({Kat} is not a stalker I promise) It was America. From Hetalia. It wasn't just him. I saw the allies standing in the front of the classroom.

"Holy shit." I whispered. "Thank you for that Alfred. Now how about the rest of you?" said looking at the allies. "I'm Wang Yao from China." Yao said. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy from France." Francis said with a wink that made the girls in the class squeal. "I'm Arthur Kirkland from England." said Arthur also making the girls squeal with his accent. "I'm-" the boy was cut off. "I'm Ivan Braginski. Become one?" Ivan said with a smile and a purple aura. 

Which I can see in the normal world apparently. Clara, hand me my sonic, I think something is off here.

The rest of the students got scared. "Okay everyone done? Go-" was cut off by me. "Ms. Drew that boy didn't finish!" I said knowing that Canada had been cut off. I seemed to be the only who noticed. "Oh! I'm sorry I didn't see him! Please introduce yourself." Ms. Drew said staring at Canada. "T-Thank you. I'm Matthew Williams from Canada." Matthew said quietly. No one but me seemed to notice he said anything. "Okay! Please take your seats next to {Kat}! {Kat} raise your hand." 

They all sit next to me now? 

I’m just going to imagine them all sitting in one desk.

Ms. Drew said. I raised my hand. They can't possibly be the characters from Hetalia. Right? I've read fanfictions about this happening but I never thought it would! 

They all sat down. Matthew sat in the seat next to me. Ivan sat on top of him. 

This is going to be full of this sort of thing, isn’t it?

Matthew tried to tell him he was there but Ivan couldn't hear him. "Ivan could you get off of Matthew?" I said nicely. "Who is that?" Ivan said confused. "Just pick another seat please." I said. Ivan got off of Matthew and sat in the seat in front of me. "T-Thank you for helping me." Matthew said quietly to me. "No problem!" 

Ah yes, here we see the classic ‘reader-chan can see Canada’ trope. 

I’m having flashbacks to Kidnapped by Sexy Men.

I said. Francis sat behind me and Arthur sat next to him. Alfred sat next to Matthew. The teacher began the lesson. I took out my things and wrote down the notes on the board. I felt a tap from behind me. I turned around to see Francis "Do you have a pencil I could borrow?" Francis asked. I nodded and handed him one. "It doesn't work." Francis said. "Yes it does." I said confused. "Really? Try writing your number then." Francis said with a wink. The girls heard this and gave a glare towards me.

That was actually pretty smooth. 

"No thanks." I said turning back around. I wrote down the rest of the notes as Ms. Drew wrote them. Finally, the bell rang. I packed up my stuff and headed to my next class. Suddenly someone grabbed my wrist. "Could you show me where my class is?" Ivan asked. "Sure! What class is it?" I asked smiling. Ivan seemed a little taken back. "Art." Ivan said with the slightest of blushes. "I have that next too! Just follow me!" 

Well, coincidentally, I am taking an art class this year. 

I said. Ivan let go of my wrist and followed me. I walked into class and put my bag down. I walked to my easel and stood in front of it. "We have some new students class." Mr. Percy stated. I looked to the front of my classroom. "Holy shit." I said for the second time. Standing in the front of the classroom were the axis. 

"Please introduce yourselves." Mr. Percy said. "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt from Germany." Ludwig said. "I am Honda Kiku from Japan." Japan said bowing. "Ciao!~ I'm Feliciano Vargas from Italy!" Feliciano said with his eyes closed. "I AM ZHE AWESOME GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT FROM PRUSSIA!" 

I’d honestly like to know why School High School has like forty foreign exchange students.

Gilbert yelled. Around me I heard people ask where Prussia was. 

Nowhere. It was dissolved in 1947.

Gilbert frowned slightly. "Prussia is the most awesome country in the world." I stated getting odd stares from my classmates.

It is part of Germany now.

 "SHE GET'S IT!"

Gets*

‘Gets’ isn’t a possessive verb.

 Gilbert said yelling and smiling again. "Shut up you idiota! I'm Lovino Vargas from Italy."

 Lovino said mad. "Please put your bags down and pick an easel." Mr. Percy said. They all put their bags in the pile and took an easel. 

Why do we have a pile of bags? That’s strange.

Feliciano was on my right and Kiku was on my left. Lovino was in front of me and Gilbert was behind me. Ludwig was next to Gilbert.

Nice. I get the two best artists.

Also, what happened to Russia? Did he just leave?

"Okay free draw and paint time. Do whatever you want." Mr. Percy said sitting at his desk. 

Wow, what a bad teacher.

I decided to draw F/A/C (Favorite Anime Character). 

Um. I think that would have to be Riza Hawkeye from Fullmetal Alchemist or possibly Lucy Heartfilia.

I’ve drawn Lucy before, but never Lieutenant Hawkeye. 

So I guess I’m drawing her?

I started to draw the character as Kiku peeked at my drawing. His eyes widened as I drew. I finished the character and carefully started to color it in. Kiku seemed very interested in it. I finished coloring and Kiku spoke up "Is that F/A/C!?" Kiku asked eyes sparkling. "Yea it's my favorite anime character." I said. "You rike anime?"

  W R I T T E N   A C C E N T S

Kiku asked. "Yea. I'm an otaku actually." I said smiling. "We have a rot to tark about then." 

sTOP

Kiku said going back to drawing. Since I was finished I walked around looking at people's drawings. I looked at Lovino's easel. He drew a box of tomatoes. "I like your drawing." I said sneaking up on him. He yelped and jumped a little. "God damn ragazza! 

Just call me ‘girl’ instead of my name.

You scared the shit out of me!" Lovino said angry. "So you like tomatoes?" I asked already knowing the answer. "No shit Sherlock." Lovino said. I disregarded what he said "You're a good artist." I said still looking at his drawing. Lovino blushed a little and I saw his curl turn into a heart for a split second. 

That isn’t physically possible.

"I-I know! I don't need an idiot ragazza like you to tell me!" Lovino said blushing still. I laughed and smiled at him. He did look like a tomato, just like Spain said. He's such a tsundere! I walked back to my easel. "Ciao ragazza!~ I'm sorry about Lovi being mean. He's really a nice guy!" 

Oh gee, I couldn’t tell.

Feliciano said. "It's okay. I didn't take any offense." I said smiling. Feliciano looked at me and his curl also turned into a heart for a second. 

Oh boy, this story is full of physical impossibilities.

"Your smile is very pretty bella.~" Feliciano stated. "Thanks Feliciano!" I said having the faintest of blushes. "You can just call me Feli bella.~" Feliciano said with a wink.

Hi, Feli bella.

The bell rang and I grabbed my bag. We all left the drawings on the easels. Next I had P.E. 

Ew.

I went into the locker room and got changed into my P.E. clothes. The P.E uniform was a basic grey shirt and pink shorts for the girls. The boys had grey shirts and blue shorts. 

That’s kind of sexist.

All of the clothes had our names written on them. I'm pretty fit if I do say so myself. My motto is "When you can run like Italy you can eat like America."

No comment.

I put my bag in my locker and walked into the gym. Some people were playing basketball and some were sitting on the bleachers and talking. I saw Ludwig standing awkwardly not sure of what to do. 

I relate.

I noticed that the rest of the axis weren't in this class. 'He must be lonely.' I thought. I walked over to Ludwig. "Hey! Your Ludwig right? I'm {Kat}! I'm in your art class!" I said smiling. "Uh...Hallo." Ludwig said holding something behind his back. "What are you holding?" I asked. "Nothing." Ludwig said quickly. "Oh okay." I said pretending not to care. I grabbed the thing out of his hands "Got it!" I said triumphantly. I saw what he had been holding. "Is this a book about how to make friends?" I asked looking at the book. Ludwig blushed profusely "N-Nein." Ludwig lied. "You don't need this." I said throwing the book in the trash. I walked back next to him 

"Now. Let's go play some basketball." I said still smiling. Ludwig blushed more. I grabbed his hand and pulled him over to where the net was. I grabbed a basketball and threw it at the basket. It hit the rim then bounced off and hit my face. "GAH-" I said as the ball hit my face making me fall backwards. "Frau! Are jou okay?" 

Why does everyone address me by my gender?

Ludwig said kneeling down next to me. "I'm fine! Just a bruise!" I said with a small smile. Ludwig sighed "Good. Don't do zhat again." Ludwig said. The bell rang, I said goodbye to Ludwig.

Well, gee, Ludwig, I can’t control gravity.

I went back into the locker room and got changed. I got my backpack from my locker and headed to lunch. I usually sat alone so I took out my headphones. I headed over to the table I always sat at. I put on the delicious tomato song since it seemed fitting. I had learned all of the lyrics of the hetalia character songs. That can happen when you listen to things for a long time. I took out my lunch from my backpack. It was F/L (Favorite Lunch).

Um. I don’t really have one of those.

 I was singing along to the song and eating my lunch when my headphones were taken off my head. 

How can I simultaneously eat and sing?

I looked up to see Lovino shoving something in my face looking away. "Uh...What are you doing?" I asked. He looked towards me with a pout. "I'm giving you a tomato!" Lovino said angrily. "Just take the damn thing before I change my mind!"

Um.

Thanks?

 Lovino said shoving closer to my face. I took the tomato and smiled "Grazie per la Lovino pomodoro!" (Thanks for the tomato Lovino!) 

I actually do know what that means without the translation.

I said. Lovino looked shocked. "You know Italian!?" Lovino asked surprised. "Yea! I took it for my first language class." 

No, I’m taking Spanish.

I said. Feliciano glomped his brother "There you are fratello! (Brother) I was looking for you!" Feliciano said still hugging his brother. "Get the hell off me veneziano!" Lovino said pushing Feli off. "Oh hey {Kat}! Why are you sitting at by yourself?" 

I don’t know, because I want to?

Feliciano asked. "I don't really have anyone to sit with." I said honestly. "You can sit with us!" Feliciano said excited. "Okay let me get my stuff." I said grabbing my bag and lunch. I followed them to their table. "Holy shit…" I said for the third time. Not only were the axis sitting there. Spain was also sitting at the table. "Hola chica!" Spain said. "Hello. I'm {Kat}!" I said holding my hand out. He shook it and said "I'm Antonio!" with a smile. Lovino glared at him.

Why does Romano care?

Is he already in love with me?

I sat down and put my lunch on the table. Feliciano and Lovino sat with me in the middle. I saw Feliciano was eating pasta and that Lovino was eating pizza. Gilbert and Ludwig were eating wurst, Kiku was eating from a bento box, and Spain was eating tomatoes. 

Just eating tomatoes for lunch doesn’t sound very filling.

"Bella do you want to try some of my pasta?" Feliciano asked. "No. She wants to try some of my pizza!" 

Um. 

Romano yelled at his brother. "It's okay guys i'm good." I said not being heard over them arguing. Kiku sensed the mood and refrained from speaking. 

Why didn’t he intervene????

Feliciano and Lovino fought with Feli's plate of pasta. Someone came by and bumped them making the pasta spill all over me. "Bella i'm so sorry!" Felciano apologized. "Shit!" Lovino said. "It's okay guys i'll just clean up in the bathroom." 

Wow guys.

Just wow.

I said standing up. I walked to the bathroom and cleaned up. I came back without my hoodie. "Okay that's better." I put my hoodie in my backpack. I realized that Feliciano won't have lunch now because it's on the floor. "Oh...Feli do you want some of my lunch?" I asked. Feliciano lit up "Sure! Gratzi {Kat}!~" Feliciano said. We shared a lunch until it was all gone. The bell rang and I said goodbye to the axis plus Spain. I headed to my next class.

This is really weird.

Just really really weird.

Okay. 

Yeah, this is definately something I’m going to continue to review. 

I’ll see you guys later!

~Kat

[carsieblanton]

Vertigo, Bacchanalia, and the Art of the Controlled Burn

How to set your life on fire without blowing it up, and why you might want to.

Vertigo is the wobbly feeling you get on the top of a building (or when you’re sick or drunk), often described as the feeling that you might fall. I’ve always experienced vertigo, however, as the feeling that I might jump. Apparently, psychologists have recently recognized this urge-to-jump, dubbed it the High Place Phenomenon, and determined that it’s fairly common, even among us happy-go-lucky, generally non-suicidal types.

I’ve experienced a similar urge when driving at night (the urge to swerve into oncoming traffic), and when holding a baby (the urge to drop the baby). After brushing up on my psychology texts, I feel confident enough in the normalcy of these urges to share them with you, right here in black and white (even though my sister might read this, perhaps while holding my fresh new gorgeous baby niece). 

I’m not actually going to jump off the building or swerve into traffic or drop the baby (fear not, dear sister!); there’s just something in the human psyche that can’t help but ask: what if you went ahead and ruined everything? For the purposes of this piece, I’d like to extend the metaphor and say that I also experience vertigo as it pertains to my day-to-day life: the urge to blow up my mental health, my career, my money, and/or my marriage. I’ve thought, “what if instead of warming up my voice before this very-important show, I just drank this whole bottle of Jack?” or, “What if instead of paying my bills this month, I bought this airstream trailer off of Craigslist?” or, “what if instead of going home to my husband, I went home with that greasy-looking drummer? We could start a cover band, right here in Johnson City, and have eight kids, and plant an orchard full of peaches, like in that John Prine song.” And again, it’s not that I really want to play a sloppy-drunken show, or have eight kids. In fact, I emphatically don’t want either of those things. It’s the vertiginous feeling that the workaday banalities of being a pretty happy person with a pretty decent life could be… spiced up, shall we say… by throwing a nice fat hand grenade smack into the garden party.

The Controlled Burn

A controlled burn is when somebody (usually a farmer or park ranger) sets fire to a piece of land on purpose, as a technique for “land management”. Controlled burns have been used for millennia, by all kinds of people all over the world. Wikipedia says, “controlled burning is conducted during the cooler months to reduce fuel buildup and decrease the likelihood of serious, hotter fire”.

In other words, a controlled burn is a cute little manageable wildfire that people set on purpose, so that their homes and crops won’t be destroyed later by a bigger, angrier, less-manageable wildfire. So in the spirit of the controlled burn, folks, I’m here today with a proposal. The next time you get that drop-the-baby, bang-the-drummer, hand-grenade-at-the-garden-party vertigo feeling: What if you went ahead and ruined a few things?

Orgies, Carnivals, and Bacchanalia

Another thing that people around the world have done for millennia is dress up in costumes and go to parties to drink, fight, bang, yell, and sing all night, in relative anonymity.

One of my favorite historical examples of this phenomenon are The Bacchanalia, which became an “epidemic” in Rome around 200BC. According to some Roman guy called Livy (writing a couple centuries after-the-fact), the Bacchic cult - to the scandal of some echelons of Roman society - held “five, always nocturnal cult meetings a month, open to all social classes, ages and sexes; featuring wine-fueled violence and violent sexual promiscuity, in which the screams of the abused were drowned out by the din of drums and cymbals.”

Sure, we frown upon this sort of thing now. 

But on the other hand, we still have bars, and clubs, and festivals, and internet porn, and sex clubs and theme parks and Halloween. And some of us lucky bastards even have Mardi Gras, which is a direct descendent of the pagan orgiastic traditions of Europe (co-opted and packaged for resale by this other, tres-popular European religious cult called Christianity (maybe you’ve heard of it)). What are these things if not modern society’s attempt to contain and mollify those nasty little anti-social urges? We humans are prone to revelry: drunkenness, violence, sex, shouting, singing, jumping from high places. We’ve tried for millennia, but we can’t seem to quit. You can dress up us in suits, give us jobs and families to manage, and wedge us into churches and communities, but those urges still crackle just beneath the surface, threatening to burn us alive. If we don’t have a war to spend them on, you’d better give us a Bacchanal, or, by golly, we’ll make one of our own - and it might not be so elegantly contained. The Bacchanalia, in other words, were a controlled burn.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith

A few weeks ago, my husband and I went on a much-needed weekend retreat. We had just weathered a fairly major accidental wildfire, and although we managed to escape with most of our valuables, our ten-year partnership was feeling a bit brittle. We rented a cabin, packed up the dogs, and drove to the gulf coast.

The cabin didn’t have wifi or cable, but they had a TV with a primo selection of DVDs such as The Fast and The Furious, Madagascar 2, and Mr. and Mrs. Smith (the 2005 one, not the Hitchcock). So, after eating a lot of gulf shrimp, we hunkered down on the couch and popped one into the player.

In case you’ve forgotten this (admittedly pretty forgettable) movie: Mr. and Mrs. Smith is about a married couple who – although they happen to be the hottest human beings on earth (Brad & Angelina, in the role that landed them in an actual marriage) – are deeply ensconced in their domesticity, bored with each other, and no longer having sex.

(I can’t help but wonder, in the aftermath of Brangelina, whether their real-life marriage ever entered the too-bored-for-sex phase. It seems crazy, I know, but you have to admit  the possibility that it did. If that’s not a good argument for the stultifying power of domesticity, I don’t know what is!)

Over the course of the film, we find out that John and Jane Smith are actually both assassins, working for rival firms. Upon discovering each other’s identities, they are assigned the task of killing each other. They don’t, but before we are sure that they won’t, they have literally blown up their beautiful house, their fancy cars, and all their rich-people-stuff, with the extensive secret artillery they both had hidden in the oven/basement/closet. Not that shockingly, destroying their domestic life reminds them that they are married to the hottest human beings on earth, and their passion is re-ignited.

Mediocre though it was, I found myself laughing maniacally throughout the movie, and eventually bursting into tears.

“Bud,” I said (because that’s what we call each other), “I think we need to blow up our house.” 

We’re no Brangelina, sure. But like lots of couples, we’d been lulled by domestic bliss into a kind of stupor, and lost track of the fact that we are both super-sexy assassins. 

A Tiny Hand Grenade

So here’s my proposal.

Perhaps happiness cannot be achieved just by building a perfect domestic life; a life of daily exercise and organic juicing, with zero debt and a “landing strip” by the door with a little basket for your keys. 

Maybe it can’t be achieved even by building a perfect artistic life, full of inspiration and gobs of time to write; the sweet husband, two cuddly dogs, and a little studio in the backyard, with pots of succulents and a hundred-year-old guitar.

Perhaps building these lives of order and comfort will not be enough to save us from ourselves.

Perhaps, instead, we should be aiming to build lives that can withstand a little Bacchanalia.

I’m not sure what your particular Bacchanalia is, but I know this: it’s not something that falls roundly within the boundaries of domestic arrangements and socially acceptable behavior. It’s not a pedicure, or one Mimosa at brunch on the weekend. It’s something that scares you a little, and probably scares your family and your friends. It’s something ugly and shocking, and tantalizing and indulgent, and maybe confusing and inexplicable. It’s something your heart and body wants that your mind probably can’t fathom.

Do you already know what it is?

I’m proposing that true happiness might be found only by making room for that nasty, scary, shocking thing, right there inside your cute little life.

It’s finding a way to pay the bills and buy the airstream trailer, or (my personal favorite) bang the drummer and go home to the husband. It’s throwing just an ever-so-tiny grenade into the garden party, perhaps the itty-bitty grenade of your true personality and your actual feelings and thoughts, such as ‘fuck this garden party, I’m going home to watch Housewives and work on my dinosaur sculpture’, or whatever the case may be.

The point is, my little wildfires, sometimes something has got to burn. Wouldn’t we be better off if we named it now, and lit it up ourselves, instead of waiting until we are engulfed in flames?