#click clack is one LUCKY BASTARD

[cosmicsodacan-art]

The name's Thespius Green!

[4dtk]

Johnny + 🤍🖤 + "oh shut up, i bet u think about me everytime u go to work + arranged marriage and ceo au

ugh, sorry i do NOT like this one, smut feels off to me 💀 sort of tsundere reader btw, also tried to incorporate the arranged marriage au the best i could but eh idk

warnings: arranged marriage!au, ceo!johnny, dom!johnny, sub!reader, cunnilingus/eating out, oral (f receiving), cum eating, implications of sex, N//SFW UNDER THE CUT

obediently, you follow the receptionist up into the elevator before she passes you onto another worker, guiding you through the winding offices and corridors of the area. it wasn’t like you hadn’t delivered lunch to him before, but johnny was a CEO that liked to travel around the floors and offices, not so much of needing to check up on his subordinates’ work, but because his work involved a lot of teamwork.

he was always going to meetings, attending brainstorming sessions that he can’t enjoy the luxury of his office, and yet he does it for his workers, easily gaining their trust and respect for how involved he seems to be for a guy that’s supposed to be at the top. you can see how the others were pleased to have him around, the others taking over easily when he sees you approaching.

“why’re you here? miss me?” rolling your eyes, you show him the bag of food that you packed on an off-day against your will, but you’ll regret it if you stay in the house where you mom nags at you to be a good wife to your arranged husband.

“take it or leave it, johnny,” you made sure to emphasise his name, staring down his eyes to avoid his lips altogether. it wasn’t like you didn’t like them, it was mostly the opposite, still hooked up on the way his lips felt on your wedding day while powerful, rich (and old, you gotta admit) men and women watched. it felt more like a business deal than an exchange of vows, but you couldn’t complain when it was to help your family business.

“you’re a little uptight, don’t you think?” johnny whispers, a curious hand stroking your forearm that you have to pull back to a little so he wouldn’t have to feel your skin heat up.

“w-what? am not!” you scoff, turning right back to where you came from without even looking back until johnny pulls you to him, a teasing look flashing across his face. “you’re so annoying that it actually makes me wanna pull my hair out.” all your husband replies with is an attractive smile, and you’re lucky his hands are off you, because you’re sure he would’ve felt the shiver that went through your body.

johnny enjoys seeing you walk away, "oh shut up, i bet you think about me every time you go to work, baby!”

managing a middle finger, you snap back with fervour that earns a laugh from johnny and a few gasps from his workers around the room, “today’s my off day, bastard!”

even on the drive home, you’re unable to stop thinking about him, unable to place a point of where you stand with him. did you have feelings? were you just relieved that your family could continue their business with the help of the influential Suh family? you continued to ponder over it, bidding your mom goodbye just as johnny returns home with a cheeky smile and greeting that your mother eats up before the house falls into silence with only johnny’s intimidating stare on you.

“did you think about me on the way home?” he asks out of the blue, his smile now turned down a notch. across his face, he’s dusted with the aftermath of yet another busy day at the office. despite the fast car ride home, it’s obvious he’s worn out by how his clothes look a tad bit wrinkled and forehead perspiring just a little. “it doesn’t hurt to show your feelings you know, cutie.”

for the second time that day, you roll your eyes, but your behaviour’s hindered by johnny’s sudden presence in front of you as he cages you in between the dining table and him. below you, you can feel the texture of the oak wood he’s specially chosen for your condominium like usual, as well as the floor that emphasises the click-clacking of his dress shoes more than it did for your heels. it was always so clear to you, so why did your hands feel like mush and feet felt like they’re floating off the floor.

the proximity felt too close, forced to look into your husband’s eyes that soon closes and you think it’s to turn away from you, but soon his lips meet yours. it catches you by surprise, humming as you moan out softly at the contact and the feel of his body against yours. “j-johnny…”

“yeah? tell me what you want, baby.” he mumbles against your lips, all logic gone from your head as you lean against him limply. gently, he helps you onto the sturdy table, roaming hands making their way to your thighs. the more they travel over you, the more the ache between your legs grows, prompting your hips to move. “ah, ah, no. not until you use your words, wifey.”

you pout, hands aimlessly wandering around his neck and nape as you wonder if you should really give in. after all, you had your fingers and your toys — still, it didn’t hurt to ask, right?

“i… i want you to—” johnny hums as a response, successfully distracting you with a thumb to your clit, that causes your words to be caught in your mouth, “w-want you to eat me out.”

“only?” the other is ahead of you, already kneeling to the height of the table as he pulls you towards the edge, “thought you wanted more, but.” he shrugs it off, removing the shorts that you had at home with the help of you. they’re across the floor in a second, not bothering to remove your underwear as he moves it to the side, immediately starting to suck on your clit.

“good thing your mom’s left,” johnny speaks into your cunt, “think i’ll be doing more than just eating your pretty pussy out, love.”

johnny’s tongue moves fast, the skilled, heated muscle switching between short, kitten licks to slow languid ones, the flat of his tongue licking a long stripe up your cunt. you’re barely holding on to the overwhelming feeling of pleasure, knees spread in a 180 as johnny eats like a starved man, drawing moans and whines out of you to the point where you vision feels blurry.

“y-yes, just like that, mmf—” you’re too embarrassed to even pass him his lunch, but your hands fly to his head in milliseconds, pushing down on him for more, more until it feels numb. you can feel the table leak with your juices, but johnny seems to be enjoying every single moment of it until the sounds are accompanied by your whimpers.

“unbelievably wet, you’re dripping right down to the floor, baby,” you open your mouth to say something only to be cut off by his mouth again, sucking violently that a choked cry comes from you, a few tears finally spilling from your eyes as your tongue lolls out. “think you can take me later, hm? i think i can slip right in.”

the words make your hips buck into his face even more with the promise of his dick in you, and johnny groans at your gesture, making sure the grip he has on your lower half is pinned down better with how much you’re squirming. that just means that johnny’s doing a good job, though. “are you close? you’re writhing so much.”

your incoherent words are enough for johnny to know that you’re reaching your peak, making do with your whorish moans and mewls and insistent head pushing. below you, he continues to flick his tongue over your bud, finger teasing your soaking hole just enough. “c-cumming, i’m gonna— johnny, i’m gonna c-cum!”

“that’s it, cum onto my tongue.” a surge of pleasure shoots through your body, stilling your body in contrast to your husband who continues to moan into your core, tiny tremors making their way through your limbs. your moans aren’t even audible, pleasure only shown through the ‘o’ of your mouth. johnny makes sure not to waste any of your cum, sucking up all of your slick from your thighs, to the table — so much so that you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you, again.

johnny’s kisses are always heated, prompting you to chase him each time you think he’ll pull away. he makes you look like an amateur, and yet the way he moves his mouth is so sensual. the other places his hands on either side of your body, nudging you down until your back lays comfortably on the table that he’s just ate you out on.

“ready for my cock, princess?” and while you fight the fluster of your expression, your body reacts to it instantly as you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer. a smirk appears on johnny’s face to which he makes a promise, “don’t worry, i’ll take care of you.”

he fulfilled that promise tenfold, until you were crying at him to stop and until he’s filled you up multiple times.

EVENT CLOSED (thank you!)

[liron-ao3]

Happy birthday, Alexander

A Malec Oneshot 🔞

Having your birthday on a Sunday has its perks. You can sleep in, have a relaxed breakfast in bed, can cuddle with your partner for hours. Okay, you might have to interrupt it for all the birthday calls, but really, no one can drag you out of bed if you don't want to.

And Alec definitely doesn't.

The bed is empty beside him, but he can hear Magnus puttering about in the kitchen. He probably has bought Alec's favourite chocolate cake from the Parisian patisserie they had their first overseas date at. Or maybe he conjures up a French toast feast or Belgian waffles. Alec scents the air, but the bedroom is too far away from the kitchen to smell what Magnus might be up to.

It doesn't matter anyway. Alec is already in high spirits. This is their day, painstakingly shovelled out of their busy schedules. It's one of many things that Magnus has taught him. It's important to take time for the things you care about. And caring about their husband, both of them do.

There are footsteps and the sound of quietly clacking dishes coming through the open bedroom door, and it doesn't take long for Magnus to appear in it, a delicately filled breakfast tray in hand, red rose and all. He wears the maroon dressing gown that Alec loves so much on him and the warmest smile that still elicits tiny butterflies in Alec's stomach. This man is his, and Alec is the luckiest guy in the world.

"Good morning, Alexander."

Alec smiles back at him. "Good morning, love."

Magnus puts the tray on the bedside table and leans in for a languid kiss that makes Alec's blood rush south. By the Angels! Magnus is such a good kisser.

Alec pulls Magnus on top of him, and then they make out for long minutes, only shortly interrupted by a snap of Magnus' fingers to keep their coffees and oven-fresh pains au chocolat warm.

Alec's hands run over the smooth fabric of Magnus' clothes. He loves the feel of Magnus' muscles under his hands, the knowledge of how wonderful the skin itself would feel if he'd pull the gown away from his husband's perfect body.

Alec knows every millimetre of skin, every edge and curve of Magnus' body. He mapped it out a thousand times with his hands and lips. He loves his scent, especially in the morning when the remnants of his shampoo and shower gel have dissipated and Magnus only smells of himself.

Alec rolls Magnus on his back and kisses him fiercely. Magnus lets him, moans quietly into his mouth. It's a heated slide of lips and tongues, teeth joining now and then. It's perfect, familiar and still full of surprises. Kissing Magnus never gets dull. And judging by the way the warlock returns it with enthusiasm, Magnus would agree with his husband on this.

Alec pulls back after a while, catching his breath. He sends a questioning look down to chocolate coloured eyes. They perfected these silent conversations over the last two years, the wordless 'Can I?' hanging in the air between them.

Magnus smiles at him softly as he usually does, his lips red and slightly swollen. Alec gets rid of his boxers, opens the belt of Magnus' bathrobe and pulls his satin shorts down, just enough to settle his throbbing erection in the crease right above Magnus' hip bone. To his surprise, Magnus lets out a discontent sound. Alec furrows his brow in confusion.

"It's your birthday, Alexander."

Alec huffs a laugh. "Yes, and?"

"You can have me."

It takes Alec embarrassingly long until he understands. His cock gets the message immediately after, though, and a shiver works itself through Alec's body.

"You don't have to," he replies nonetheless when the spike of arousal subsides. It's nice that Magnus is willing to sleep with him from time to time, even though he doesn't derive any pleasure from it. At least not in the traditional sense of sexual satisfaction. But Alec would never expect this from him, much less over the fact that it's his birthday. He wants Magnus to be in the mood for this kind of intimacy.

Magnus cards his fingers through Alec's hair, just the way the shadowhunter loves it. "I want to," he simply states.

And it is that simple. Honesty, that's what they promised each other. No pretending to be fine, no important words postponed to later, no doing things out of a misguided sense of duty.

Alec dives in for another kiss. He'll never get enough of these lips, of this man, of holding his heart and Magnus his in return.

He brushes the fabric to the side and kisses a long trail from the spot behind Magnus' ear to the place where he should have a belly button. Alec grins and enjoys the goosebumps that he can conjure on Magnus' skin when he does things like this. His husband is so responsive, and Alec loves it. Loves him so much.

When Alec pulls down Magnus' shorts, his dick is lying there, not even semi-erect. Alec ignores it. He learnt that Magnus' arousal is unpredictable and says nothing about how much he loves him, of how beautiful Alec is in his eyes, of how much he likes to feel and taste him.

Alec's eyes roam over Magnus' caramel skin up to his beautiful cat eyes. They smile at each other for a long moment as if frozen in time. Alec could bathe in the glow of their love for all eternity.

Magnus breaks the moment with a snap of his fingers, and Alec chuckles in surprise when he feels his fingers slick with warm lube.

"Impatient, are we?" Alec smirks.

"For you? Always, darling." Magnus grins up at him and spreads his legs invitingly. Alec's eyes fix on the inviting hole. He gives his own cock a few strokes before he touches the rim, a heady feeling overwhelming him.

It's not that they never have sex. No, far from it. Alec enjoys Magnus' body, his hands and mouth ever so often. But this here? This is special. This is something they haven't done since their wedding anniversary.

Alec loves being inside Magnus. It's not that he loves it more than all the other sexual things they share, but it's different. Very good different. Nothing compares to the tightness of Magnus' ass, the way he clenches around him, the feeling of being so utterly connected that they become one.

It's stupid, Alec thinks, as if we weren't one at all times and especially in bed. But tell that to his cock that springs excitedly at the mere thought of burying himself in Magnus' narrow heat.

Alec pushes a finger slowly inside. It always fills him with wonder how easily Magnus lets him in. It's trust in its purest form, and it doesn't cease to amaze him, doesn't cease to flood his body with all-encompassing want. Magnus does this for him out of love because he wants to give him what Alec could live without but is happy that he doesn't have to. They always do this on Magnus' terms, and knowing that his husband wants it, too, makes the sex for Alec only better.

"I love you so damn much," Alec breathes, looking up in his husband's eyes, and Magnus clenches around him as he laughs.

"I love you too, Alexander." It's spoken with such joy and sincerity, it takes Alec's breath away. How is this not a fairy tale?

"I can take more," Magnus states, and Alec chuckles. He complies, feels Magnus stretching around his fingers.

Briefly, Alec wonders if he is the only gay man with a cis partner who has no clue where his lover's prostate is. He only knows that he will stimulate it by mistake when he adds a third finger. But Magnus takes it. Alec hates it when he makes him bolt up the bed, the touch too intense and arrow sharp, nothing like the pleasure Alec experiences when Magnus does the same to him.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"It's quite alright, Alexander," Magnus breathes. "I think I'm ready."

Alec furrows his brow in concern, but Magnus is already moving. He cleans Alec's hand with a snap of his fingers and pushes him on his back. Alec can't help but think that he's one lucky bastard as he watches his husband getting ready to ride him. He loves the sight of Magnus hovering over him, lining himself up with his dick. He looks so good like this, all sexy muscles framed by maroon silk, a masterpiece of art.

But it's nothing compared to the feeling of Magnus sinking down on him. Alec closes his eyes for a moment, tries to keep in the lewd moan threatening to fall from his lips.

Magnus clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Let me hear you, Alexander. Your passion is my greatest reward."

And so, Alec lets it out, moans Magnus' name and praises him as he starts moving. The drag of Magnus' walls over his cock, the quiet moans falling from his husband's lips—Alec can't help but think that Magnus enjoys himself.

It's not exactly true, he knows that. But Alec learnt to relish it nonetheless. Magnus wants to make him feel good, and who is he to deny his beloved anything? Magnus is in charge, can control the intensity of what he feels. And Alec is in for the ride, can enjoy the pressure of Magnus' hand on his chest and the slide of his ass over his cock.

Magnus moves his hips exactly how Alec likes it, pulls himself up just to slam down again, a constant assault on Alec's nerve endings. It feels like ages and seconds, an eternal tide. Alec gets lost in it, lost in Magnus' loving ministrations.

Alec hums when the telltale sign of concentred heat pooling in his stomach announces his near climax. He doesn't warn Magnus, well-knowing he might stop and prolong their love-making. But this is enough, will always be more than enough for Alec. The fact that Magnus allows him to have him like this—glistening with a sheen of sweat, eyes closed in concentration, his body moving in ways Alec's blood-drained brain can't properly process but that he enjoys to the fullest—is the greatest gift of all, birthday or not.

But something must have given him away. Magnus surely knows how to read his body, or maybe his mind even. He opens his unglamoured eyes, looks at him with so much adoration and love, it pushes Alec only closer to the edge.

"Come for me, darling," Magnus huffs out, strain clear in his voice, as he keeps on slamming their bodies together with clear intent. And Alec does. His body spasms, his sight is replaced with darkness and fireworks. He moans Magnus' name as he fills him as if there were a way to get even closer than this.

When he opens his eyes afterwards, his brain still far from being back online again, they are already magically cleaned, and Magnus lies in Alec's boneless arms.

"Happy birthday, Alexander," he chuckles against his shoulder.

Happy birthday, indeed.

[kechiwrites]

tension headache

Ground Zero x Publicist!Reader

wc: 2.2k

“Being Ground Zero’s publicist comes with its own set of challenges, luckily there are quite a few benefits to sweeten the deal.” warnings: anal play, dirty talk, light degradation, light spanking, d/s undertones (or overtones w/e), bakugo being the king of bullies

author’s note: i’ve been writing this since august and it’s finally done. special thanks to @lady-bakuhoe​, @some-kindofgnome​, and @nightly-tales​ for betaing! 

Your head is throbbing. The sort of building tension headache you became most familiar with in high school; the kind that starts in the morning and gets stronger with every little irritant. You’re sure it's a tension headache from having your shoulders hunched up to your ears most of the day, a seemingly ever-constant by-product of trying to keep Pro Hero Ground Zero from biting a journalism student's head off. The obscenely large TV hanging above the receptionist’s desk plays Ground Zero’s greatest hits on mute as your heels click-clack towards the steel and glass elevators. 

It’s almost the end of his patrol and you know he’ll be up soon, sidekicks and assistants (two this month, because the first had the good sense to resign soon, lucky bastard) in tow. Four consecutive texts rattle your phone in your pocket to confirm this. Each one an iteration of “on our way up!.” Waving at his secretary, you let yourself into his office setting your purse on the floor. Further behind you can already hear the clamor of voices and activity that announces Ground Zero’s arrival, people no doubt scurrying out of his warpath lest they incur his wrath. He pushes open the heavy door and says nothing to acknowledge your presence. 

Your forehead throbs with irritation at the snub. You know it’s only a matter of time before either of you begin to push the other’s buttons but your employer seems to have a secondary quirk he uses only for you.

You like to call it Extreme Irritation.

“Would it kill you to be nicer to the press?” You give first, sitting on the overstuffed leather couch pushed against the easternmost wall underneath a frankly, unnecessarily large, framed photo of U-A’s graduating class. “Why do you insist on making my job so hard?”

“Can’t pay you for fucking nothing,” he scoffs, leaning against the desk in the center of his office. Carefully he divests himself of his gauntlets, handing one to his senior assistant, and placing its twin onto the desk next to his big gaudy nameplate, muttering; “Take this to Yumikawa, I think I broke the fucking thing.” When he’s halfway past the threshold, Ground Zero adds, “And tell her to do better with her shitty paint jobs!” His gaze snaps to the newest recruit, a tiny shivering thing who looks like a stiff wind could blow her over, “What the fuck are you standing there for? Go with him! Do I have to fucking tell you everything?”

She practically leaves a dust cloud in her wake. You roll your eyes and begin reading through news updates on your tablet, nails clicking lightly against the screen. Tweet after tweet and article after article summarize Ground Zero’s latest exploit, every title and byline more sensational than the last.

“Ground Zero Overshadows Daring Rescue with Another Tirade!”

“Is Ground Zero the Meanest Pro-Hero Ever?!”

‘imagine ground zero calling you stupid 🥴 #imahole’

You could almost laugh if it weren’t for the startlingly large amount of retweets on that last one. Finally, the pro hero deigns to address you; “I did as you asked, I smiled, I laughed, I didn't blow anyone up.” He actually sounds proud. You blubber in shock. “You called the reporter a fuck wit! They can't even air that!” For good measure you hold up the tablet to replay a heavily edited fancam of Ground Zero sneering at some poor junior reporter. “Isn't that what you wanted? Less of my insults on TV?” He is so smug, it drives you crazy. “Not like that!” You toss the tablet onto the couch beside you and stand, stomping towards Bakugo, who’s leaning against his desk, clenching his jaw, arms crossed, as if he didn’t spend the entire morning making you wish you’d never laid eyes on him. The two of you are growing more and more irritated with each other and it’s evident in the rapidly rising volume of your conversation.

"I'm serious, if you want to be ‘Number One’,” you stress through your teeth, “people have to like you, at least a little bit. That. Includes. The. Press.” Every word is punctuated with a strong poke to his sternum, and you try to ignore the pain of jabbing your finger into his brick wall of a chest. It feels as though the pristine white collar of your button-up shirt is digging into your throat while you try to restrain yourself from biting his stupid, perfect nose off.

Now it’s Bakugo’s turn to roll his eyes, “People like me.” He looks to his sidekicks for confirmation and you pointedly ignore them bobbing their heads in unison.

“Who?! Who are these people that like you?”

Bakugo gestures wildy at his sidekicks, “They like me!”

“They’re afraid of you! They respect you but they don’t like you!” You shake your head in disbelief.

“You like me!” He barks at you.

You almost choke on your surprised laughter. He really was absolutely ridiculous.

“I have to like you, you pay me!”  

“That’s right. I sign your cheques, you deal with all the media bullshit and make me look good.”

“You make it impossible for me!” If it weren’t for the intense tunnel vision your arguing was giving you, you would have seen Ground Zero’s sidekicks inching slowly towards the door.

“Well maybe you’re just shit at your job!” He turns away from you to push papers to the side of his desk, the gesture a clear dismissal that only serves to rile you further.

“Oh fucking bite me, Katsuki!” As soon as it’s out you slap your hands over your mouth, eyes wide as dinner plates.

You were exhausted and tense and so mad but it’s not what you agreed on, never at work and never in front of subordinates. In an instant it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. Bakugo’s expression is furious when he whirls on you. You chance a look over at his assistants and all colour has left their faces, ‘Impressive,’ you think idly, ‘Considering Haruto is literally purple.’ 

“Out. Now.” He growls, and his teeth are clenched together so hard you think they might shatter, his throat is rapidly turning red and his hands are clenching and unclenching around nothing. The sidekicks hesitate and you’re a little grateful for their loyalty. 

“Fucking out. NOW!” He yells, and they nearly fall over each other trying to get out the door. 

“And there goes the loyalty,” you murmur while you watch their hasty retreat. “I’m sorry,” you say, turning to face him head-on, apology punctuated with the slamming shut of his office door. You focus on the wall of windows behind him, the city skyline slowly lighting up in the nighttime, preparing for an infamous Ground Zero meltdown. “That was inappropriate, especially in front of subordinates.” Idly, you wonder what the theme this time will be; Disrespect? Insubordination? Or just a good old-fashioned dress down? He’d become quite wordy over the years, you were almost beginning to enjoy them.

While you muse Bakugou inches closer to you, cheeks a mottled red. His shoulders rise and fall repeatedly, like he’s bringing himself down from the peak of his anger. For a moment you think he’ll just outright scream in your face, but when he pulls you, first towards him and then past him until your stomach presses against his desk, you realize quickly what he’s planning. 

His forearm presses against your back until you’re bent over his desk, your hands palm down between the wood and your chest to prevent your face meeting the cool oak. It’s bordering on humiliating how easy he can manipulate you. But they don’t teach hand to hand combat in the business sector, and although you’d toyed with the idea - being in a high-risk industry and all - you never put stock in seriously learning. 

The blond’s hand snakes over your shoulder, slightly damp palm advancing until it’s pressed against the smooth flesh of your throat. Katsuki pulls you towards him this way, and for a short moment breathing is a laboured task. The other hand makes quick work of divesting you of your skirt and underwear, coming down in an instant to make contact with your bare ass. He rubs at it covetously, a shallow attempt at soothing your stinging skin. 

There’s no formality when he thrusts into you, only a few seconds between feeling  the head of his cock parting your embarrassingly slick folds and him being fully seated within you. You grit your teeth against a whine, fingers scrambling for purchase when he withdraws and fucks into you again, and then again, pace slowly gaining momentum until you can swear the heavy oak desk (and seriously that thing weighs a fucking ton) is shifting with the force.  Your stomach presses painfully into the gilded metal decorating its edge but it’s good. Katsuki is so fucking good at taking you apart with every inch he drives into you. Above you he mutters lowly about how fucking wet you are, how eager you must’ve been all day, waiting for him to fill you. It goes on like this for a while, you bouncing between his hips and the desk, him whispering filthy, untrue shit in your ears that makes your nipples hard and your breathing shallow. 

He places his free hand on your back, first up under your shirt, then slowly slides it down, until it’s resting on the roundness of your ass again. You don’t know what he’s planned till his thumb’s parted you, sliding softly over the clenched furl of muscle above your stretched open cunt. 

“Bakugou, no!” you whisper hoarsely, your voice just edging on hysterical as you struggle against his hold. 

“Excuse me?” He hisses between his teeth, thrusts not slowing for a second. The hand around your throat tightens and when he pulls you closer so his sneering mouth is brushing the shell of your ear, you unwillingly tighten around his dick in response. 

“(Y/N),” his voice is almost pleasant, and had you not been split open on his cock in his office, you’d ask him who taught him an ‘interview voice’. 

“Can you tell me who's name is on the building?” While he teases you, you can feel yourself getting wetter around him, thighs tensing and relaxing with the sensation of being spread open beneath him.

“Yours.” You wish you could fall through the fucking floor.

“I’m sorry?” His thumb presses a little more insistently against your pucker. The pressure is foreign, but not at all bad. Dear God, you’re really about to let him do this to you.

“Yours, sir.” You pant, the burning sensation in your cheeks and neck a mix of exertion and shame.

“Fucking say it,” Katsuki tightens his hold on your throat and your whimpers are barely audible over the sound of his hips brutally meeting your ass.

“G-Ground Zero.” you choke out through your clenched teeth. 

“Oh good, so you can read!” Katsuki releases you from his hold and you fall forward. With every thrust, your feet lift off the floor, and you lurch forward like a ragdoll. Katsuki pushes his thumb further inside you, belly-laughing when you cry out in pleasure.

“Where’d all that resistance go, sweetheart?” His digit fucks in and out of you in tandem with his cock, keeping you full constantly. “You know what? Next time, I’m gonna take my time stretching you, keep you wide open, maybe you can wear a plug for me, huh? And then after you’ve been soft and needy all day, I’ll slide right into you, fuck you till you gape for me.” 

You’re incapable of firing back, mouth occupied with moaning incoherently while you drool against the desk. Katsuki chokes off his own moan, using his unoccupied hand to hike up your leg so he can have easier access to your clit. The calloused pad of his fingertips press hard against you. He goes so slow, pushing and nudging at you until your entire body feels feverish and your climax takes you by surprise, forcing a yelp from your lips when your legs begin to shake. 

“That’s it. Come for me. Come on my dick.” Once he’s sure you're done, he pulls his finger from your ass and releases your leg, blanketing your back with his chest. His hips are quick to lose their rhythm as he fills you, ropes of his spend coating your insides. Katsuki shudders against you, hands running a course along your hips. He pulls away, the evidence of your time together sliding down the inside of your thigh without Katsuki’s cock to hold it in.

“I’m going back to working for Hawks.” Your voice is hoarse when you can finally speak again and levering your chest up off the desk onto shaky knees only serves to make your head spin more. You glare at your boss your boyfriend as he dresses.

Katsuki’s grin is derisive while he tucks his softening dick away, “Like fuck, you love working for me way too much to work for that fuckin’ pretty boy.” He leans down in front of you and slides your underwear up from your ankles back into place, followed by your skirt before pressing soft lips to your forehead, smoothing his hands over your cheeks. 

At least your headache is gone.

taglist: @enjifuckersupreme @pleasantanathema

[whumperooni]

Lucky, pt ii

Pairings: Chisaki x Sister!Reader

Tags/Warnings: tw incest, fear, humiliation, Nemoto being an Asshole, kind of angst i guess

Word count: 1.7k

A/N: I rewatched the Overhaul last night and just couldn’t help writing a little bit more for this verse;;;

This is a small, short continuation of this.

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Out of all the eight bullets, Nemoto is the only one that you truly fear.

Rappa is rough and terrifying with his muscles and crazed desire to always be fighting, yes. Sometimes a shiver runs down your spine whenever you catch Tabe looking over you like he’s just dying to take a bite out of you, yes.

But they don’t scare you- not like how Nemoto does.

Sweat pricks at you whenever the man draws a little too near- you always feel as if he’s just waiting for you to slip up, that he’s nothing but eager to force you to choke out all your sins and faults. Even with his mask on, you know his eyes are always staring you down- boring through you as he waits for Kai to give the order to pry into your brain, make you spill out guilt ridden confessions to satisfy his suspicions.

Even when your conscious is clean, you can’t help but to tense whenever Nemoto is near- you know he’ll be able to draw out something to get your big brother livid and ready to deal out punishment.

Nemoto scares you. He terrifies you.

So, whenever you walk into your room and spot him sitting on your bed, you can’t help but to startle and freeze, panic as the overwhelming urge to run run run has your body ready to bolt.

Doing that would just be an invitation for him to use his quirk on you, though. Running would satisfy some condition to find you guilty and in need of confession.

You swallow, hard, and force a smile onto your trembling lips, curl your fingers tight into the pleats of your skirt.

“N- Nemoto,” you half squeak out- not able to call to voice the usual casual breeziness you use with the rest of your big brother’s guard. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You don’t stutter out the last bit, at least. Nemoto still tilts his head when he looks toward you, though, and you could swear that he’s wearing a smirk underneath his mask.

God, you hate him.

“Overhaul wants me to escort you to his office,” Nemoto informs you, slowly rising from the bed. Your eyes dart toward the mussed covers to find that a pair of panties had been sitting beside him- a lacy thong you had worn the day before, something your maid must have missed in her tidying.

Your cheeks burn- from rage, shame, embarrassment, a cold prickle of horror. You nod, though, and try to keep your composure, can’t help a flinch whenever the man draws near.

“What, um...does nii-san want something?” you ask weakly, trying to distract yourself from the panic that’s creeping over you in an icy dread.

“Obviously.”

The word is dry, filled with the distaste that he seems to hold for you. You’re not really sure why Nemoto carries so much disdain for you, but it never fails to make your stomach lurch, your head bow as you try to hide a wince.

Honestly, you might be more afraid of him than you are of your brother.

Now there’s a thought.

Nemoto leads the way and you trail a step after him- wary, tense, on edge with the wild fear that he’s going to drag out some punishment-inducing truth from you, that he’s going to twist even an innocent truth into something that’ll look like a crime of betrayal to your big brother.

Sweat begins to gather along your hairline and you swallow hard- the clicking of your heels sounding like gunshots in the silent hallways you walk down and doing nothing to soothe your nerves.

“Do you love your brother?”

The question cracks the silence and it has your eyes widening, fear seizing your heart. A tiny whimper slips from you as you feel his quirk latch its claws into your brain and the click clacking of your heels stutter, dread multiplies and grows so fast in your stomach that it leaves you feeling sick.

“I- I love my brother...”

There’s a huff and just a moment’s of reprieve for you before the next question is asked, before the next truth is dragged out from between your trembling lips.

“Do you love anyone besides your brother?”

“P-papa...”

It comes out as a whimper- scared and childish and small. Nemoto clicks his tongue, almost as if disappointed, and he turns to stare at you, watch as you cower- frozen in place and utterly terrified.

This is why he was waiting for you. This is why you’re being called to your big brother’s office.

Kai wants to hear your sins. He thinks you’ve betrayed him somehow.

Cold sweat drips down your temples and your eyes widen beyond belief, tears prick at them, threaten to gather along your lashes.

He- he knows. He knows about Kurono’s touch to your back. He knows that you had fantasized about hands other than his.

He knows. He knows. He knows.

You’re so paralyzed by your fear that you miss the tilt of Nemoto’s head, the small step he takes toward you.

If he wasn’t wearing his mask, you’d be able to see the smile on his face- sadistic, reveling in your terror.

“How sweet,” Nemoto mocks- words like poison, disappointment sharp as a knife. “And, tell me, have you fucked anyone besides your big brother?”

“No!”

It’s true- it’s disgustingly, thankfully true. He won’t find fault in that answer-  nothing he can tell your brother to get hellfire raining down upon you.

He had asked the wrong question.

How lucky.

Timid relief pulses through you as you take a ragged breath and you swallow hard at the annoyance Nemoto radiates, the ways he clicks his tongue once more. The annoyance only grows whenever you seem to relax and you don’t need a clear view of his face to know that he’s scowling.

Prick.

For one hopeful moment, you think that it’s over- that you can scurry off toward your waiting brother and get this over with.

The step that Nemoto takes toward you, though, has that hope shattering and you gasp whenever he leans in close- close enough to nearly touch you, brush his mask against your cheek.

You almost wish he had touched you. You would have no problem telling your brother about him daring to lay his filthy, cruel hands on you.

“How do you feel whenever your brother cums inside you?” Nemoto asks- nasty, so mean, his quirk stabbing at you something fierce. 

Fucking bastard.

The words tumble from your lips before you can even think to put up the fruitless fight to try to stop them and you begin to cry as they do, drip tears that has Nemoto chuckling.

“G-good. F-full. Warm and- and- and dirty!”

“Are you pure, miss? Or are you just a filthy little whore?”

The title of miss usually murmured with respect comes out twisted and sneering, taunting and crude. The whore that Nemoto spits out, though, is even more cruel, has you choking on your sobs as you try so desperately to keep the truth from spilling out of you.

It comes, though.

It always comes.

“I’m- I’m just a filthy- just a filthy whore!”

Nemoto pulls back from you- satisfaction rolling off of him in thick waves- and you bury your head in your hands, cry as shame and humiliation washes over you.

You hate him. Oh, god, you hate him.

“Come along, miss- your brother is waiting.”

Feet stumbling, you follow after Nemoto- desperately trying to stem the desperation the bastard is surely getting off to. You swipe at your tears and you try to quiet your sobs, glare at the man’s back through your blurry gaze.

The only thing that keeps you from fully breaking down is the vindictive satisfaction that he hadn’t managed to make you confess the one thing that would have brought the punishment he so obviously wants you to suffer through. The vile scum might have made you cry- is still making you cry- but he didn’t get what he wants.

Unlucky for him, lucky for you.

Not another word passes between the two of you until you reach the gilded doors of your brother’s office. Nemoto looks over you- head cocked, hand paused in its raise to knock on the door.

“Do you hate me?” he asks- curious, amused, without the use of his horrid quirk.

“With all my heart,” you spit out at him- not caring that it could just make everything so much worse.

Nemoto chuckles and then he knocks on the door, gives a mocking, sweeping bow and lets you walk in first.

You hold your head high and step into the office- smears of mascara and eyeliner ruining your cheeks, eyes still bright with tears.

Kai runs his gaze over you, impassive and unmoved, and then his eyes flick behind you, his head tilts.

“Well?” he asks.

“Innocent,” Nemoto sighs, not even trying to hide his disappointment.

Your lips twitch with the threat of a smirk, but they tremble instead whenever Kai looks back at you, whenever the set of his shoulders relax. He crooks his finger and you go to him, sit yourself on his lap and bury your face in his neck, sniffle out your upset while he begins to rub your back.

“You can leave.”

You only lift your head once the door closes and you look up to your brother, feel tears start to gather once more as he runs his eyes over your face.

“Nii-san...”

Kai hums and he cups your cheek, thumbs away the ruined makeup marring your face. He’s gentle with it, almost tender, and you shudder at the touch, press into it.

“Such a good girl,” Kai murmurs. “My sweet little angel.”

The possessiveness has you nearly whimpering, has your lashes fluttering under his piercing gaze. You nod, curling up closer to him, and try to hide your trembling fear, the lingering worry that even with his subordinate forcing you through confession that he’ll still find you lacking.

“Y-your good girl,” you whisper to him- voice shaking, eyes squeezing shut. “I- I’ll always be yours, Kai.”

A hum sounds from your big brother and he tugs his mask down to lay a kiss to your forehead, pulls it right back up as he rubs your back in a soothing little motion.

“I know,” he tells you. “It doesn’t hurt to check sometimes, though.”

The words cut into you- hurt you- and you sniffle against him, tremble as your remaining dregs of fear course through you like something sick.

Later that night, you lie in Kai’s bed- eyes dead, cold cum oozing out of you, your mind wondering over what you would have said if Nemoto had asked you if you hate your dearest older brother instead.

[byorder-fanfic]

A Ghost Walked Through the Door

Summary: Anna Gray has been looking for her brother for a very long time.

Word count: 2637

Warnings: Mention of foster care and children taken from parents, swearing, implies abuse from Church (nothing explicit) and implies homelessness/ rough childhood.

Author’s Note: In the show, Anna’s age is all over the place so I’ve decided that she is a year older than Michael (born in 1902) because I really like the older sister dynamic. Hope you enjoy xx

Anna stood outside the wooden gate, staring into the typical country garden: green grass (that surely would've been vivid in any other season but the grey winter) that stretched as far as she could see, and slap bang in the middle of it all was the little brick cottage. The fire was lit. Perhaps he was there, the person she had been searching for as long as she escaped the boat. Perhaps this was it- the day she found herself. Her shaking hands did not reach to open up the gate. Not yet. The rusted old car of Jack Low's had clunked its way down the dirt road many minutes ago, leaving behind a trail of smoke and her. She was lucky she had found someone to drive all the way to the front gate, and Jack was quite kinder than she'd expected when she saw the white-haired bloke. It was because of the fur lining her throat and wrists, the newly gained winter's coat showing off a majesty of wealth she did not have. If Jack had noticed the thick chunk of mud clinging to the bottom of her leather boots, or had he clued on to her makeup less face behind her slick bob and fringe, or even saw the dimness of the plastic beads as she rolled them between her calloused fingers, he hadn't asked. Thankfully. Maybe Michael would- he'd probably be impressed with her finery, especially if the farm life was all he knew, and then he'd probably be a bit disappointed with how she acquired each luxurious item.  Finally, her hand (pale and shaking with more than nerves- why hadn't she taken Alberta's gloves that she'd had her eye on?) pried open the gate with a creak, as she walked into the garden. The sound of her quickening breath thrummed in her ears as she kept on going, heels clacking and tangling in the field. She made it to the door. Laughter boomed inside- could it be Michael's? Eagerness overcame her as she rapped on the door, politeness replaced with loud booming knocks that scraped her already bruised knuckles. The voices quieted, a quick "I'll get it!" from a woman. Michael's foster mother, perhaps, would she let Anna see him? The weight of a knife in her pocket proved that hypothetical pointless. Heels tapped closer. And closer. And- the door swung open, Anna's heart nearly burst. She was a portly woman, a warm smile on her face as she observed the girl with evident surprise. "Hello there, can I help you?" She asked kindly, hand still on the door frame. "Yes, please." Her eyes flickered behind her, where photos lined the walls, but she couldn't make out the one face she needed. "Are you Mrs James?" She nodded, yes she was. Another breath fell from her, a smile curling on her lips. The nun hadn't lied, then. "I'm looking for Mich- Henry, I mean. Henry Johnson. Your son, I believe." The other name still seemed so wrong on her tongue. Mrs Johnson's face fell, sadness and suspicion souring the woman's once kind expression. "It's Michael Gray now," she spat out. "Those Shelby bastards took him back to Birmingham with them." Anna breathed in deeply- her entire family was reconciled, all but her. Surely, if they found Michael, that meant they knew about the documents. Fuck. "When was this?" Her voice was meek. Maybe she could stop any real damage before it was done, stop Michael and her mother from mourning a girl still alive. "Two years ago," she said in a solemn voice, her eyes growing glassy. "Why?" "I'm Anna Gray," she stuck out her hand. Mrs Johnson hesitantly accepted it, eyes wide again in shock. "I'm looking for my brother." "Don't." She shook her head. "Those Shelbys are the devils, dragging my boy," she paused, "my Henry, into their Peaky Blinders nonsense. Your Michael...he isn't that boy any more." "He's my brother," she said, trying not to feel too offended at the disgust directed at her cousins. "He's all I have." "Very well," Mrs Johnson conceded, although obviously still disapproving from the look in her eyes. Motherly, Anna would call it, if she even remembered what having a mother was like. "They live in Watery Lane, Small Heath. Everyone there knows them, so just ask for directions." "Thank you!" Without entirely thinking it through, Anna pulled the older woman into a quick hug, pulling away when she felt her tense. "And thank you for looking after my brother all these years. It's good to know he had a good woman taking care of him." She couldn't call Mrs Johnson a mother, although she knew from the grief in her tone and photographs still hung up, that she was exactly that. But her mother was still alive- her loyalty was to Elizabeth Gray, first and foremost, even if she felt pity for this woman here. Just as Mrs Johnson had said, directions to the Shelby's betting shop (now Shelby Company Limited, she was impressed to hear) were easy to come by. Although she was getting odd looks from the men in uniform caps and coats, who were obviously comparing her clothes with that of most Small Heath citizens. Her years of searching were finally over and yet she couldn't find herself to knock on the bloody door. Or even walk down the bloody street. She loitered around the Church, not daring to go in, but not straying from its sight. The rosary in her pocket was wrapped loosely around her battered fist, as she uttered a silent prayer. The nuns and priests from the orphanage had jaded her to all things Christian, but this was a gift from Peggy. The good Catholic girl that took one look at the girl on the streets and decided to befriend her. Well, friend wasn't exactly the right word. She felt a burst of courage at the feeling of the wooden beads now, the crucifix hanging on the end of it no longer bringing vomit up her throat. "Oi, you there!" She jumped at the accent. It wasn't Brummie, sounding closer to Isabela's voice: another girl that friend wasn't the right word for. She looked at the boy, who was lighter skinned that Isabela, and wore the same cap and coat of many men in Small Heath. However, he himself couldn't have been older than Anna. "You coming in, or am I allowed to lock up?" "I'm just leaving," she said. Her voice wasn't from Burmingham either, immediately making the other boys eyebrow to shoot up in suspicion. She didn't really have an accent, just a blend of all the places she'd been and all the people she'd ran from. Despite her statement, her shoes stayed firmly on the path. Michael and mum were just a walk away, and she was stuck outside the Church as the boy faffed with the keys.  "So," he came up behind her, tilting his head. "Just leaving anytime soon, or...?" He had a smirk on his face and a teasing glint in his eyes, that immediately took in her appearance with curiosity, stopping at the rosary. "Just getting courage," she held up the beads before putting them back in her pocket, tapping over it to make sure it was safely in. "Whatdya need courage for?" He asked as he lit up a cigarette, standing stationary besides her. "Need to get to the Shelby betting shop," she shrugged her shoulders, hoping that'd get Church boy to stop asking. She hadn't missed the almost fearful nature her family was spoken in. But not Michael, of course- her Michael wasn't a Shelby. "Oh, really?" The boy put the smoking cigarette in the corner of his smirk. "Cause I'm just going there." She groaned internally, knowing this meant she actually had to go. "Alright," she snapped. "Could you show me the way?" "Course," he held out his elbow like he was a gentleman. Anna didn't stop her self from rolling her eyes as she took it, with only a little smile. "I'm Isaiah Jesus, by the way." "I'm Sally." Only the nuns ever called her that, in an attempt to pacify the girl screaming for her mother. Everyone else called her Anna, and Sallyanna if she was in trouble. "No last name?" "You'll find that out soon enough." For someone who seemed so talkative, Isaiah sure knew when to shut up. "Alright, Ms No Last Name," Isaiah teased as he held open the door, gesturing for her to go inside. "Here we are: Shelby Company Limited's very own betting shop." She was slow as she walked in, head turning to the pale pink wallpaper and the floral sofa. A cross hung up on the wall, alongside a number of Biblical quotes. There was a double set of doors, painted green, that were thrown open. Inside, a crowd of men and woman sat as numbers were called out, typewriters clicking and Peaky Blinders smoking. Isaiah walked past the frozen Anna, welcoming into the shop with cheers of greetings. "Hey there Isaiah!" One boy yelled. He was round faced and freckled, taller than everyone else and skinny as Anna was behind her thick coat. "Who's that you got with you?" "Sally here wanted to come to the betting shop." Isaiah gave a shrug, revealing that was all he knew, as he sat on his desk. Three men looked up from the table: one looked a lot like the skinny boy that had noticed her, but older. Not Michael. The other was broad shouldered and intimidating, with a moustache. Not Michael. The third man had hair as dark as Anna's, with the bluest eyes. But Michael had brown hair, and hazel eyes.  "And why do you want to be here?" The blue eyes man questioned, voice cold. She recognised the three vaguely, mind scanning for facts she once knew as well as the sky was blue. "Tommy?" She asked, eyes squinting, then she pointed to the other two. "And you must be Arthur and John, then." She didn't heed the curious glances as she stepped further in, head turning around to the people staring at her. "Finn, I'm gonna guess, although I never really knew you." The freckled boy had a shocked look on his face, as he turned to Isaiah in a "who the fuck is this" kind of look. "So, where's Michael?" Her voice was stern as she looked around again for the brown hair she only barely remembered.  "And why the fuck do ya wanna know that?" John, Anna thinks, stood up, arms folded as he watched her scan the room. "I've been looking for him for fourteen bloody years," she cocked her head, seeing a light flicker in the blue eyes of her cousin. "Now tell me where the fuck Michael is." Suddenly, a door opened, two sets of shoes walking through as they muttered to one another.  "Mum, there's abso-fucking-loutely no way I'm gonna do that," a voice said as he walked into the betting shop. The round face she remembered had sharpened out, his skin tanned (probably from the farm) in ways she knew her pale skin would've had she gotten onto that boat. His mousy brown hair was tidily gelled up, a smart suit on his broad build. He didn't walk in it like he stole it, she noticed proudly. His hazel eyes widened as he looked at her. The woman at his side was frozen too, watching the betting shop's sudden pause. "Who is this?" The woman snapped, dark eyes falling on Anna. She had the same dark hair, although hers was longer and in curls, and their eyes were just the same. No one could answer for her, and she seemed too absorbed in the two figures in front of her to bother with formalities.  "Anna," Michael's voice was barely a whisper, but is shattered everyone. Next to him, Polly trembled, pale skin suddenly whitening as she started to draw the same comparisons to the baby she had held what felt like a life time ago. "Hiya Mikey," Anna said in the same soft voice she'd use when they were little. She opened up her arms. "You too old to hug your big sister or what?" In a second, her brother fell into her, arms wrapped so tightly around her torso that she thought she was going to suffocate. If the fur on her coat was itching his face, he didn't seem to mind as he pressed his face against her neck, tears spilling from both of them. "I missed you so fucking much," she croaked into his ear, not daring to look up to her mother's broken face, or her cousin's undoubtedly confused faces. "I thought you were dead." Michael sobbed a little, pulling her closer as if to check she was real and not just the ghost Polly used to have nightmares about. "They said you were dead, gone to fucking Australia so I couldn't even see you." "I didn't even get on the boat, Mike. Couldn't leave. Not with you in England." They finally broke away, as Anna allowed her rough hands to wipe away the tears on her little brother's face (not so little anymore) and giving the biggest smile she'd ever worn for the longest time. "Been looking for you for years, been from orphanage to orphanage trying to find Michael Gray. Turns out that wasn't even your fucking name." "You were looking for me?" Michael's voice was an echo, sadder and on the verge of more tears spilling. "Course. Wanted to find you so we could come back home together." She took a dramatic turn of her head, grinning. "Although you didn't seem to share that sentiment, huh?" He tried to chuckle a little, shyly wiping off tears and snot with the sleeve of his probably expensive suit. "Went all the way to the fucking countryside only to be told that I had to go all the way back to Small Heath. Honestly, couldn't have waited a few years for me?" Her teasing tone was second nature, a whisper of the what was. "Bus fare wasn't cheap, you know?" Not that she used the bus. Or paid, with her own money at least. Still, it got another smile on his face as he hugged her again, letting her breathe this time. "Anna?"  The broken voice was enough to get Michael to back away, falling by his sister's side to allow Polly a proper view of the much longed for daughter. "No, it can't be, I thought- they said...but...you were alive this whole time?" She barely whispered, shaking the dark locks of curls with her head. She took a few strides forward, lifting her hand. Despite the great comfort she felt in the woman's presence, she flinched at the sight of the manicured nails being bared. Ever so gently, Polly placed her hand (too cold for comfort, but Anna had felt colder) against Anna's cheek. Bringing another hand slowly up to pull back the dark fringe that covered her forehead. Like this, she could see her wide eyes that had once looked so big on her bald head, the little pout that would tremble when John took her toys, the curves of her face that were so like Michael's, and her dark eyes that could only be Polly's. "My girl, my Sallyanna." "Mum," Anna smiled as she fell into her embrace, letting the woman hold her like she should've done for the last fifteen years. There was no tears this time, just soft smiles and tight arms clinging to each other like she had done when the coppers came knocking. Only she was grown now, and she wouldn't let them take her from her family ever again.

[butterbuni]

♥ Prologue ♥

Prologue of Disguise, a Kaminari x Fem Reader

"Hello my dear viewers! Thank you for joining my stream. If your new here thanks for coming. If your one of my regulars welcome back, you know the drill." I looked up at my left monitor watching the numbers of watchers rise as well as the number of donations.

"We are just waiting for one more guest! LightningMcSpark101 he is always late." I rolled my eyes playfully knowing he would be watching the video later when I upload it. My discord rang and I quickly answered it, "Dude you are so late!! The viewers were waiting!" I said into my mic.

"Aw man, I was so sure I was on time this time!" I heard him say from the other end. "Alright alright, all is forgiven! Hurry up and let's get this started. I only have 2 hours today!"

"Sure thing dude! I am so beating you this time!"

"In your dreams Sparky!"

"It's on G/N (Gamertag name)"

I smirked at my screen and took hold of my controller pressing play on the newest battle game that I was sent to try and review.

The screen lit up as it announced my ultimate victory. "Haha! In your face Sparky!! I win once again!"

"Awe man!!! I was so sure I was going to win this time!! You defeated me dude how is that even possible!!!" he exclaimed from his end.

"Ha, you thought. Thanks for helping me show off this game!" I looked over to my left monitor and saw my view had only gained as well as the occasional donation, "I hope you guys enjoyed my demonstration as much as I did! Make sure to go out and buy this amazing game! It's a lot of fun to play especially with friends maybe one of you may get lucky and I would play with you next time. Unfortunately, it is time for me to log off however same time next week. What do you say Sparky?"

"You bet!"

"Bye guys!" I said as I waved goodbye with one hand and clicked end stream. I let out a sigh of relief. That was so much fun. "Sparky you do not know how much fun that was!"

"I am so glad you let me try it out with you! Hey, when are you going to let me see your face you always wear that face mask. I only see half of you!"

"I will let you see my face when pigs fly!" I said scratching the side of my face avoiding not wanting to give him a straight answer. He asks this every single time we go on live together. "Plus it's not like I've seen your face either for all I know you are a 40-year-old man, but you don't sound a day over 15," I said cheerfully.

"Oh wow thanks." he said sarcastically, "I would show you my sexy awesome face but I don't think you would be able to resist me."

"Ha, you wi-"

The alarm on my phone went off stopping all conversation, "Oop looks like my time has come! See ya later dude!" I said quickly changing tabs to end our call. "Aw, c'mon just a little longer. I'll promise I'll be good."

"Sorry, sparky you know the drill I really need to go now," I said hastily wanting... no needing to end the call.

I heard him sigh from the other end. My cursor hovered over the end call button impatiently. My eyes kept darting to my bedroom door. He was taking too long and I didn't want to end without saying goodbye

"I'll catch ya next time G/N. Next time I promise to beat you in whatever game we play."

"Don't hold your breath," I laughed and clicked the end call button. Once it ended, I quickly tore off my face mask and took off my headset. I pulled out a medium-sized box from beneath my desk and put both of them in.

I quickly took out the game cd and put it back into its packaging. I pulled out a bigger box from beneath my desk that had various other games I've collected and put the game in. I sighed, "I wish I didn't have to live like this." Almost as soon as I closed both boxes and put them away, there was a knock on my door.

Fuck. Already?

"One moment!" I called out. Why why why now. I went into my walk-in closet and quickly changed into clothes that my parents deemed suitable for walking around the house. There was another knock at the door, "I'm coming!" I fixed my hair and opened the door quickly revealing my butler. He wore a simple black and white suit with a handkerchief hanging off his arm and as usual his gray hair was slicked back.

"Hello Bertrum," I said standing up as straight as possible.

"Hello ma'am your parents are waiting for you downstairs. Dinner today is coffee-rubbed steak with brussels sprout salad." He bowed down to me.

Great just my luck. I rolled my eyes just before Bertrum rose from his position. "How wonderful I will be down in a second."

He nodded and went on his way. I shut my door closed once he left. With my back against the wall, I slide down to the ground. I wish we could have normal food for one. I would kill for a hamburger right about now.

I got up from the floor and dusted myself off. I might as well get this over with. The sooner I get there the sooner I can leave.

I walked over to my vanity mirror making sure all my 'imperfections' were perfect in the eyes of my parents.

Once I felt ready I walked out of my bedroom making sure to be extra slow about it. I walked through the halls of our family portraits and statues. I've walked this same path for years and each time I still don't feel like I belong.

Every single one of the pictures had a family member who did something great with their lives. Some went on to be some of the greatest support items manufactures. Some became politicians. Some even became costume developers. But here I was, some random teenager who just happened to be born in a family with everything.

I walked down our spiral stairs my hand running down the banister. Well, everything except parents with the capability of love and care.

I walked into the family dining room to see the long table completely dressed in fancy dishes. Both my mom and dad weren't looking at each other. Mother was typing away at something on her laptop and Father was talking to someone on the phone.

I don't even know why they require me here anymore when they wouldn't even pay attention to me.

"Hello Mother. Hello Father." I said flatly announcing myself in. "Hello Y/N," they said without even glancing at me.

I sighed. Of course, they wouldn't even look at me. I am sure they have even forgotten how I looked considering I don't even remember the last time they looked at me for more than 10 seconds.

I took my seat at the far end of the table to wait for the maids to deliver the food.

The dining hall instantly fell into silence with nothing but the clacking of Mother's keyboard and the low gruff talking of Father on his phone. It was unbearable.

Mother finally spoke to me as the maids came into the room with our dinner.

"We have decided where you will be going for high school." She spoke, "With your quirk, we decided that you will go to U.A and join their support course."

"But mother I was planning on becoming a hero like the rest of my friends," I spoke up as a maid dropped my dish in front of me.

She scoffed at me, "I can see why the Todoroki family would want their son to be in the hero course but I don't know why the Yaoyorozu family would let their daughter partake in such a trivial career."

"Mother heroes have a lot of importance in our society! Without them, the world would spiral into chaos. Plus the support course won't even have people to sell their inventions."

"Support for quirks will always be in business with or without the heroes. The heroes are the cause of chaos. They refuse to properly dispose of villains, making our society go into a cycle of a hero-catching villain only for the villain to escape and wreak more havoc. If they would make an example of one of those good for nothing bastards, the people in our society wouldn't have the nerve to stand against heroes."

"But Mother that is such a horrible-" I started to say looking at Mother in disbelief.

"I know you are not talking back to me right now!" she raised her voice at me slamming her fork down on the table.

"No Mother," I said looking down at the plate of food.

"Good."

It was silent once again. Father didn't even bother trying to come to my side and I didn't even bother standing up for myself.

I've learned the hard way that when something is asked of me, I have to do it. Or else.

I picked up my fork and picked at my food. I wasn't even that hungry plus it wasn't like brussel sprouts and steak were very appealing.

"Aren't you eating Y/N?," Father said turning off his phone and picking up his own fork to eat. He only said that to me so he could still pretend to be that caring father he once was in his only little fantasies.

"I just don't have the appetite right now," I said dejectedly. "You should eat your food. Do you know how many kids are starving?" Mother said.

"Maybe you should feed them this nasty stuff," I mumbled.

"I didn't quite hear what you said. Could you repeat that for me?" Mother's eyebrow twitched as she gripped the fork in her hand tightly. I didn't think she could hear me. "I just think we should distribute our wealth to help people less fortunate. People could stop going home hungry," I said dropping my fork down. If she wanted to talk about starving people we can talk about starving people.

"It is not our fault that they made bad choices in their lifetime and ended up poor. Why should we share what we worked hard to get." She said not sparing a glance at me.

I rolled my eyes once she paid more attention to her food than me. Every time I try to have this conversation with her she shuts me down with her hypocritical ass. I stared at her as she ate her food. Who is she to talk about hard work when she worked her way up into my father's pants. The only hard thing she's probably ever done up till now was picking a way how to seduce him.

After a considerable amount of time of pushing my food around my plate the maids came and whisked away our plates. I gave them my thanks. Mother and Father however just picked up their laptop and phones and excused themselves from the table leaving me by my lonesome.

I sighed. Welcome to the life of L/N Y/N.

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

Once my parents were out of sight I rushed up the stairs and past the halls filled with everything my family wanted me to be and into my bedroom. The one place in this house that I felt comfortable. The one place in this big mansion that felt like home.

I locked the bedroom door and quickly logged into my computer. I looked at the number of donations I received from today's stream. I let out a yell of excitement seeing the 2000$ on the screen. A whole 500 more than last time.

I could do more with this money. I pulled up a list of local poverty fundraisers. If Mother and Father won't do anything, I will.

I donated the money equally between the topmost trusted charities. As soon as I clicked the submit button for each I felt satisfied. Even if it wasn't much, the money I made off my twitch account was what kept me motivated to keep going. People out there were suffering and people like my parents were sitting down and letting it happen when they could be doing something about it.

I've thought about wiring money from my parents' accounts but I'll just get myself in trouble so two years ago I started live streaming. When I started earning money from it, I realized I could be making a difference with it.

I sighed as I leaned back in my chair. Two years ago I wouldn't have dreamed of going against my parents' wishes but here I am. Created my own monitors from scratch with the help of my quirk and Momo making the parts. I let out a sad laugh. I even went as far as to covering half my face just so I won't be recognized by anyone.

Just as I spun in my chair looking at my ceiling, my phone buzzed on my table. My head perked up looking at it. Who could be texting me at this time?

I picked up my phone seeing it was a discord notification from Sparky. I smiled softly at my phone. It's like he always knew when I was down in the dumps. I may not know who he is behind that screen but he has quickly become my best friend. ~~~~ Y/N Character Sheet 

[brashierc]

Surprise

You had no idea Connor was coming home today. He meant for it to be a surprise. Today was the day of your annual work party, the one you had begged for him to come home for, but the sneaky little bastard told you that it was too close to show dates and that the team wouldn’t let him leave. 

But here he was, driving Shawn’s Tesla around LA to get things ready for the surprise he had planned for you. What he didn’t have planned though was for you to be shopping in the same area as him. 

So when he almost ran into you for the third time he decided that maybe it was time to surprise you a little. 

You were just pulling out of the shopping center when your phone illuminated that Connor had posted on Insta, with the fact that Connor posts all the time you shrugged and told yourself you’d watch it the minute you got home.

**

“Guys okay,” He clears his throat as he records himself on his phone. “So my wife doesn’t know I’m home.” He grins at the camera, eyes flickering up to watch your car. “But I am to surprise her, and I’ve driven past her three times now and she’s about to drive past me.” 

He moves the phone so it shows your car through the window. 

“Anyway, I just wanted to say that my wife is driving my Jeep,” He looks up and squints his eyes for a moment. “Oh fuck she’s coming, shh.” He puts a finger to his lips and ducks a little as if Shawn’s windows weren’t completely tinted. “God damn shes so hot. She drives with one hand on the top of the steering wheel, and good lord it turns me on.” He mutters to himself. 

But it’s like he then suddenly remembers that he’s live and looks back at his phone. “Okay well that’s all I wanted to say, and if you’re watching this later Honey,” He smiles real wide. “Come home because I’m waiting for you.” 

When the video cuts you look up at the house from the driveway, tears in your eyes when you notice the lights on inside. You almost eat shit when you race inside and when you finally make it in the door you’re greeted with the Rocky Horror Picture Show Soundtrack playing through the surround stereo and a cozy looking Connor in your kitchen.

You scream as you jump on his back, hugging him tightly.

“Hi Baby.” He grins, immediately reaching back to grip your thighs. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Did you really think I would miss your work party?”

“You said you couldn’t come.” You whine, sliding off his back to stand on your feet again. He turns to face you, cheeks pink as he cups your face.

“First of all, come here.” He whispers leaning down to kiss your lips softly. “Second of all, I may have sort of told you a little tini tiny fib so I could surprise you. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re forgiven, this just made my whole day.” 

“Good, because I was really hoping to make you happy.” 

“You always do.” You smile, cupping his cheek, scrunching your nose at how cute he is when he leans into your hand. 

“What dress are you wearing tonight?” He asks as your thumb rubs at his cheek, making his eyes flutter for a moment.

“The green one.”

“Can you wear the blue one?” 

“I don’t have a blue one.” You furrow your brows. 

Connor bites his lip, looking down at you and then turning and walking down the hall to your bedroom with you right on his heels.

“Babe, I don’t have a blu-” You gasp when you see a lovely royal blue knee length dress hanging up on the hook in your closet. “No you didn’t.” 

“I had to.” He shrugs.

“Why?” You ask confused.

“Because it matches the tie you got me for Christmas.”

“So you had to get me this dress because it matches your tie?” 

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” 

“Yes it does.” He argues. “Because now we’ll match tonight at the party. And,” He blushes, reaching over and pulling out the pink and black bag he’s been real excited about. “It also matches this.” 

You eye him skeptically as you peak in the bag, gasping once again, looking up at him with wide sinful eyes. “You wanna play tonight?” You whisper. 

He smiles, kisses your cheek and lightly bites your earlobe whispering, “Get ready, it’s gonna be a long night.” 

**

He’s dressed in a nice white shirt with his blue tie and black slacks, waiting for you on the couch with his right foot propped on his left knee. His phone is in his hand as he bites his lip reading over emails.

You walk into the room, having paired your outfit with some old heels you found in the back of your closet. He looks up at the sound of you click clacking closer and his just about drops his phone.

“Holy shit.” He breathes out. “Baby.” 

“Hi.” You smile sheepishly. 

He stands, now going to the camera on his phone. “Give me a twirl Beautiful.” He motions, recording the moment. “Holy shit I’m so lucky.” He groans because posting the video. 

“You like it?”

“I liked it on the hanger, I love it on you.” He grins, leaning in for a quick kiss. “But you’re missing something.” 

“What?” You ask, looking down at yourself.

“That wrist is looking pretty empty.”

“Oh well I can go-”

“Maybe I can help you out with that.” He pulls the long black velvet case out of his back pocket.

“Connor!” You gasp when you see the pretty sprawl of Cartier on top of the case.

“Just for my Baby because she means the world to me.” 

“You seriously need to stop.” You whine covering your face.

“Can’t a man spoil his woman?” 

“You did when you came home, everything else is too much.” 

“No Darling, it’s not enough. You’re everything, and I love you so much. Let me show you.” With that he opens the case and you almost tear up at the sight of the bracelet.

“I know it’s not the love one you’ve always talked about,” He explains, “But I was hoping this would work as a stand in until I save enough for that one?”

“This is perfect, please don’t.” You stop yourself when you realize he’s shaking his head. 

“It’s really the only piece of jewelry you’ve ever spoken about, I can promise you’ll have it I just need a little more time.” 

“Connor,” You pout, suddenly feeling bad for making him feel like he needed to spend so much because he wasn’t wrong they were hella expensive.

“Can I put it on you?”

“Please?” 

You hold your wrist out and allow him to clip your bracelet on.

“Okay, let’s go. Don’t wanna be late for your party.” He offers an arm once you’re ready.

“You’re too much Mr. Brashier.” 

“You’re everything and more Mrs. Brashier.” He kisses your cheek.

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

Strawberry Icecream.

Dean misses Cas.

Well, sue him for having feelings about his very awesome boyfriend, who is currently living out his highschool dream in Washington, interning at the frigging White House. 'They're very lucky to have you', Dean had said, sincerely, to a very white-faced Castiel, in a student blazer. 'I just hope they let you come back home, when you're done'. And the latter had smiled, in spite of himself, and planted a chaste kiss on Dean's lips.

That was the last time he'd been kissed in the past six weeks. Not the longest span of all time, but it sure feels like an eternity.

It's not just the feeling of lips on his; that shared softness, the sweet ecstasy of such intimacy. The shuffling closer and the teasing apart, the hums of pleasure and all the infinite sparks everywhere. It's not just Cas's kisses he misses. It's Cas.

It's all of him. It's the morning snark, and the having someone to surprise with coffee in bed. It's the checking-in at lunch - they obviously still do that, but those bastards give him only enough of a break to text, and the going shopping for groceries, almost daily, (Cas would have said, it's because they're both really bad at shopping, and also have a tendency to speed-eat through everything, if they've got the stuff at home.) It's the dinners - it's not nearly the same thing, when you're the only one snickering at the sitcoms, through a mouthful of pizza. And it's the going to sleep, together, and wrapped around in all the most perfect ways.

Fuck, Dean misses Cas so much, it hurts.

He hates that he wasn't able to join him in the capital - since bunking twelve weeks off a year, is the kind of dumb thing Dean would've done for someone like Cas, but wasn't allowed to, because that's who Cas is. The sonuvabitch had rolled his eyes in a partial reprimand, when Dean had hinted at it. 'Oh, Dean'. He'd said, in that beautiful fucking voice of his. 'I'm going to be back so soon to ruin that bachelor's life you'll get used to again; you have no idea'.

Well, to hell with that. Dean had learned to dig the committed scene now, okay? He didn't like living alone in their apartment, any more than he liked sleeping all up on Cas's side - trying to bury himself and fit in the impressions on the mattress.

It was a weird life he lived.

He didn't even have any pending deadlines, for a huge fucking change, because most months of college when Cas is around is spent regretting all of his life choices - times when Cas is right there, so warm and delicious and amazing, and Dean has a stupid essay due Monday so he can't join him in bed.

Without too many things to do, but drag himself to every class he's taking, literally everyday - he's this sort of unbelievably punctual these days, which makes no dense - he has way too much time to long.

Dean curses silently at himself at his own trail of thought - a rather sad, long monologue, indeed - and especially his choice of words. Makes him sound like a war widow for Christ's sake, and his man is just a few states over. Kicking ass, for the US government - among other, more boring stuff he has to do.

And that's usually where he stops thinking. It's where he picks himself up from the couch, and sits at his desk with a Mechanics textbook instead - or somedays, it's where he goes over to his neighbor's, to simply hang. Charlie Bradbury recently moved in across the hallway. A complete dork, of the kind to battle his stupid brother - but incredible at taking his mind off of other things. (It was impossible to be discussing Star Wars ships with her while missing Cas.)

But today, he does something different. Instead of shoving his loneliness away, and adding it to the pile of feelings he has built his throne on - read, is sitting on presently - he picks up his phone. Unlocks the screen to Baby staring back at him with blaring, truly picturesque headlights that is Dean's wallpaper - and clicks around till he has opened his chat with Cas.

The last thing they'd been talking about was how Cas's deskmate listens to a lot of Korean music, and he's kind of falling for BTS himself - Dean had asked him, perfectly serious, if he needed to show up at his workplace, to serenade him with Led Zepp as drastic times call for drastic measures, and Cas had sent a laughing-with-tears emoji and added, that he was sure Dean would enjoy them too, and that he'd definitely make Dean listen to it when he got back. The only unread message he had, was a song rec, which Dean rolled his eyes at. The only way he was going to "fall" for a modern-day boyband ever, is if Cas was right by his side, telling him to do it.

Dean's thumbs click-clacked on his phone keyboard until he'd typed it out.

I miss you.

But who was he kidding? He wasn't going to send that. Or say that. At least, that wasn't what he was going to lead with. The reluctance was half-ways Dean's internal hesitation, for unexplainable reasons, and also knowledge of the fact that such a blatant confession would tell Cas just how devastated Dean was, on this end, and he'd probably fly back the next day to check on him. The thought brought a random pricking sensation in his eyes, but he ignored it.

He erased that.

>>> hey, what are you up to?

He hadn't expected an instant response, so he immediately leaped when he got one. A smile, brighter than any that'd made it to his face today, showed up at the pleasant surprise, that Cas was around his phone and probably available to text.

<<< nothing much. got home ten minutes ago.

To read 'home' in any context, than to talk about their apartment with him in it, here at Stanford university - was all sorts of revolting, but he swallowed his first reaction.

>>> half day? did you have food??

<<< yes, to both.

Dean thought of what to say next, miserable because he was bad at this - dammit, conversations always flowed when Cas was in front of him, but he'd never been good at texting - but thankfully, Cas went on.

Dean sighed, softly. Imagining that gave him another smile.

<<< hey, guess what I'm up to?

>>> nothing much.

He pinched his brows together, as he squinted. Would Cas be able to hear him tease, from his words alone? He must, right? Unlike him, Cas was always a good texter. 'Emoticons', he'd just vaguely justify it.

<<< what I'm up to NOW, is smiling

<<< but I'm also getting something to eat. What do you think I'm having?

Dean bit his lip, thinking about it. It's probably like four, in the afternoon, because he's only been wallowing in his misery for an hour before he's texting Cas. That's like a couple hours after lunch for Cas, which means this is probably a late dessert.

That makes sense.

>>> pie?

But then, he thinks about it, and how Cas loves potatoes enough to have them for most meals these days. And he used to frown over Dean and burgers, while gorging on his new love, the world's unhealthiest vegetable, first thing since he got out of sight.

>>> does it involve potatoes?

He sends in, last minute. But perhaps Cas was already typing out his answer, because his message hasn't even been read when he receives another message.

<<< STRAWBERRY ICE-CREAM WITH CHOCOLATE SAUCE BECAUSE I AM A CRIMINAL OF MANKIND

Dean takes one look at that, and is suddenly collapsing on the couch in a fit of laughs. He melts spontaneously, and his phone falls on the carpet, as he bends over, laughing. He can't help it, the image is just too perfect.

Cas yelling those words, at the top of his lungs - that's what all-caps mean, right? - in his deep, gorgeous baritone - looking all rebellious about the last part, just like he can be some days. That ridiculously adorable scrunched-up nose, and that stubbornly jutted-out chin with a defensive glare, which is also meant to stand it's ground in a fight, and just -

It's too perfect.

He imagines Cas in front of him, and he imagines that everything is perfect again - he's right there, and he's pouring his stupid chocolate syrup over a bowl of pink ice creams plentifully, all the while being smug because he's basically breaking societal norms, and just being so fucking proud of himself with that tiny smirk and the pout he'd have, and his -

Fuck, it's hard to even think about it, without getting a goddamn attack about how much he misses Cas.

<<< Dean??

<<< This is the part where you tell me that if that's a crime, you wanna share that cell with me ;)

Dean is pretty sure that in that moment, he dies. He can almost feel the moment his spirit leaves his body, because he's frozen for a full minute - stunned by the amount of love he has in him. His heart is brimming over with emotions, and every string in there is screaming for Cas, in the name of love.

He's known he loves Cas for months now, but he's never fallen so hard for someone.

Yet it only makes sense, in fucking leaps and bounds, that it's Cas. Who breaks all those limits. Who turns Dean into mush, who breaks all his limits, who owns every square inch of Dean and his heart, and who just makes him melt.

It's not even an incredibly romantic dialogue. It's childish, and hilarious, and just so Cas, that all of Dean aches at once.

>>> you're sorta wrong

It's a wonder that Dean can even keep holding onto his phone at this point. He's basically a puddle of emotions, a mess of feelings, letting every current of love wash over him and deride his boundaries, just a little bit more. He's suddenly euphoric; it's like he's seeing his situation from an elevation now, and he doesn't care about anything else - the whiney voice in his head reminding him it's gonna be another six weeks can go screw itself, because Dean loves Cas so much, nothing else can possibly matter.

>>> this is the part where I say I love you

It will always work out. Distances will go away, and Cas will return, and Dean will get to hold him again, and he'll get to kiss him again, and call him an idiot, and then bring him coffee again.

And what else could Dean Winchester ever really need?

***

Notes: Oh, Sammeh. I wrote after a couple millenia. And there's so many people who've all been heartwarmingly nice about my *block* and I've been getting pretty much a lot of inspiration lately, though I haven't been writing it - but today was different. Today, I was m o v e d, and I told life to shove it's shit someplace else and cleared my brain and fucking wrote this weird-ass tiny piece of feelings.

I dedicate this to @screamatthescreen. She's my texting soulmate (in the sense, that we were made to text each other) and says the most amazing things and I love her and well, she inspired me so hard that I threw away redox and equivalents and began to type. And this came out. Thank you, Zina!!!

Since I'm back on my BS, here's a word out to the tribe: @ctrl-alt-destiel @emmii4 @awkward-penguin-in-a-trenchcoat @styggtroll @adventurous-blob @petrichoravellichor @all-or-nothing-baby @moderatelypanickedbiromantic @elvenlicht @legendary-destiel @noemithenephilim @galaxy-charm @trenchcoatsandfreckles @naitia @ladywaywarddsc @zoerayne2426 @thekidsmaybealright @hellfire37 @3dg310rdsupreme @impulsivedandelion @iamcharliebradburylevelperfect I have a feeling I'm forgetting people. I should've updated my list, dammit. So sorry if I am, please just drop me a line. Taglist open, Please ask if you wish to be removed/added.

[keeroo92]

How do you feel about a reincarnation plot? Centuries ago, V and reader cherished each other deeply. All was well until a natural disaster struck, prematurely ending their lives. When reader meets V now, she remembers certain things. Another natural disaster threatens to tear her and V apart, but somehow the lovers get to safety. Enduring nature’s wrath alongside reader stirs up long-forgotten feelings. He realizes she’s his soulmate- they’ll end up together regardless of date, place, or time.

So first off THANK YOU for this prompt!!! I have loved it since the first time I read it and I am so sorry it took this long for me to respond to it. There’s so much potential and I wanted to do it justice, so there’s going to be at least two chapters for this. Once the next one is ready I’ll link it at the bottom here. Enjoy!

Word count - 1,923

_________

A Dance of Souls

Your eyes were glued to the sky in shock and awe, watching the massive column of darkness rise from the mountaintop you’d lived beneath for years. Mere moments had passed since the ground shook under your feet, the force of the rumbles strong enough to bring you to your knees. Others in the crowded courtyard mirrored you, faces turned to the realm of the gods above.

Many were praying. Two or three cried. Not one person looked like they knew why the gods were so angry.

You tightened your grip on your dark-haired lover’s hand. His locks concealed his features, but you could tell he was shaken.

“Gods… what do we do?” you asked.

He grimaced and lowered his gaze, his familiar hands seizing your shoulders and helping you to your feet. Together, you made your way through the bewildered crowd. The cloud was growing, spreading to the sides and you shuddered in growing fear. Someone must have deeply offended the gods to cause such a display of their power. You prayed to them for mercy and forgiveness, promising tribute if only they spared you and your beloved.

At first you didn’t notice the shadows growing, too distracted by navigating the swarm of people. It wasn’t until you reached the square you lived in that your worry retreated enough to notice. Your eyes shot skyward and you staggered.

The sun was gone.

The gods have taken away our sun?!

“What forces could darken the sky?” your companion murmured. You lacked the logical answer you knew he craved and supplied the only one you had instead.

“The gods are angry.”

Before he could respond, something clattered on the rooftop on your right. Another, to the left. More and more, almost like rain but the ashen smell was all wrong. You brought your tunic to your nose, but it did little to help.

Are those… stones?!

You crouched and picked up one of the clattering objects, running your fingertips over the rough surface. The texture was similar to the tablet you used to scrape your feet in the bath – pumice.

It was raining pumice.

“We need to get inside, now!”

The urgency in his tone betrayed his panic and your fear bloomed into mind-numbing terror. Nothing scared him. Nothing. Never in the ten seasons since you met him had you heard him speak with fear. Not even when you were screaming, bringing his son into the world. Even then, he held your hand and told you how lovely you looked and that he was right beside you through every moment. The child died soon after and he held you all through the night. Still, he had not been afraid.

You didn’t resist as he pulled you inside the home you shared and slammed the door behind him. His hands were shaking as he set the lock in place. What began as an ordinary day was rapidly becoming anything but.

The stones pattered on the roof for hours while you tried to withstand the chaos. It was easy to hear the screams and shouts from the street, the children crying for their mothers. You prayed for salvation, but the acrid aroma of ash only grew stronger. The gods weren’t listening to you.

He stayed with you, offering his own prayers despite his lackluster faith. If the situation wasn’t so dire you would’ve kissed him.

Ominous creaks joined the rhythmic clacks of the falling stones. Your eyes shot to your lover, wide and swimming in fear. He hummed and pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest. Despite the reassurance his embrace offered, the hammering pace of his heart only heightened your panic.

“It’ll be all right, there’s nothing to fear. Tomorrow we’ll be busy clearing away the stones, you’ll see,” he said.

No, we won’t! We’re going to die!

Tears spilled forth like a fountain. It was too soon, you weren’t ready. You didn’t want to die. There was still so much left to do, like give him another son. It wasn’t fair, what could you have done to deserve such a cruel fate?

“We’re going to die. The gods have abandoned us,” you whispered.

He tightened his arms in reply, crushing you to him until you could almost forget the horror consuming your home.

Almost.

Outside, the screams were almost gone, most throats silenced forever. The roof creaked again and you whimpered, sure that this was the end. You buried your face in his tunic, thankful for every second you spent engulfed in his scent and his warmth. What a blessing, to not be alone in your final moments.

“At least we’re together.”

He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “I’d gladly sever my every limb if it meant you were far from this place.”

A surge of shame flooded you. Here you were, thanking the gods that he was with you, and he was wishing you were somewhere else. You leaned away to meet his eyes, though you couldn’t see him well in the darkness. He was such a treasure. How fortunate you’d been to have him.

“I love you,” you said, aching with grief and regret.

A rumble in the distance reached your ears as his lips opened, closer with every pounding heartbeat. You reached out to stroke his cheek one last time.

“I lo- “

He couldn’t finish as the air turned to poison, burning its way into your lungs with each breath as the rumble came to an end. His eyes went wide, his hands clawing at his throat as he fell prone. You joined him a beat later and struggled to bring his head to your lap. You curled over him as fluid filled your lungs. Both of you were crying, eyes red and swollen.

There was so much you wanted to say. You wanted to tell him how precious he was, how every moment with him was a gift. How much you cherished and admired him. You wanted to list all the things he did for you that meant so much; his kisses, his hand in yours, the sound of his laugh, the sound of his moans in the night…

But you couldn’t breathe. All you could do was stroke his obsidian hair, cough and watch the light fade from his eyes as his features went slack. The moment he was gone, your soul shattered. Nothing was ever so painful as watching the love of your life die.

At least you wouldn’t be far behind him.

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

You bolted upright with a gasp of agony. Sweat stained your skin, thick on your forehead and under your arms. You could still feel the fluid in your lungs, the poison in the air as you desperately tried to slow your racing heart.

What the hell was that?!

Nightmares weren’t new to you, but this one was so real… Who was that man, why did it hurt more to see him die than to do it yourself? Why did your heart still ache with grief?

Any why can’t I remember his face?

You closed your eyes and rubbed your temples, dispelling the lingering images. It helped to hear the clacking keyboards surrounding you as your colleagues worked. Nothing like working in a cube farm to make you drowsy, especially doing mindless data entry. After another beat, you shook your mouse to keep the screen from going dark. They monitored that kind of thing here, and it never hurt to cover your ass.

On that note, better get back to it.

You hadn’t even loaded the next invoice when the lucky bastard with the window seat cried out. Steven, if you remembered right. All you knew about him was his appreciation for crunchy snacks and tendency to curse when his computer didn’t work.

“Holy Hell! Did anyone else feel that?”

To your left, Shannon hushed him, but he refused to calm down, waving his arms in a gesture of panic. Whatever he was talking about, you weren’t going to let it ruin your numbers for the day. You clicked through the invoice and entered the tax codes, moving on to the next in less than five seconds.

That was when the building started shaking.

At first, you thought it was the nearby train passing, but the sound was all wrong. Too deep, guttural instead of tinny and the tone didn’t change over time. Something was wrong.

“Duck and cover! It’s an earthquake!” Steven shouted, already halfway under his desk.

The fancy artwork rattled against the walls. Drawers slammed open and closed, monitors crashed to the floor and you knew he was right with a rush of terrified adrenaline. Living on a fault line meant most people in the building saw this regularly, but you moved here two months ago. All you had to go off was Hollywood and rumors.

Not exactly trustworthy sources of survival training.

Better than nothing!

You stood and tore your keyboard from the CPU, lifting it as a shield as you crossed the aisle to the nearest pylon. Carrie always complained that the massive structure meant her cube had less functional space, but it was sturdy and thick.

The office was in pandemonium, men in suits and women in pencil skirts hustling to cover as fast as their desk job legs could carry them. You were on the eleventh floor, so they had a long trek down the stairs ahead. Someone was screaming, but they fell silent after a loud crash.

You looked up to see cracks forming in the ceiling. Why wasn’t it over yet? Weren’t quakes supposed to be short? If this went on much longer, the building wasn’t going to last. The only options you had were to wait it out or make a run for the stairs.

With a muttered curse, you ripped Carrie’s keyboard free and doubled your cover, promising yourself you’d go for it on three.

The lights flickered, cube walls waving like stalks of grass as you sprinted to the stairwell. The door was already open as people flooded the narrow opening, clawing at each other for even an inch of room. Every single one of them went down and you went with the flow, not strong enough to fight it.

“Hey! You’re all going the wrong way! We need to go up!” a voice yelled at the next landing. Black hair hid the man’s face, barely brushing against the collar of his white button up and tie. His actions matched his words as he struggled to ascend.

It made sense. With this many people crammed into a small space, the speed you’d be able to move was negligible. Not to mention that there were only six flights to the roof.

Still…

You shoved your way closer to him, muttering apologies to those you jostled out of habit alone. “Hey! Why up?”

Just as piercing jade eyes met yours, the horrendous shaking stopped. Gasps of relief filled the stairwell, laughter and cheering a beat behind but the tightness of the man’s expression never wavered. There was still something to fear.

“It’s an old building, we’re safer with nothing over our heads,” he replied.

An echoing crash rattled the railing under your grip. The crowd screamed as the building quivered, chunks of plaster breaking free and falling to the steps. Your eyes widened as the man took your hand and started running, dragging you along with him toward the elevator.

You were only three feet away when the floor dropped from under your feet and everything went black.

[brightemeraldazuredepths]

Really in a Pickle - closed

@brokcnpride

Ten minutes.

Hawks had been fighting this brawler for ten minutes. It was unacceptable. Where was his fucking backup?! His sidekicks?!

Whatever this towering bastard had for a Quirk, it either had something to do with his fists or his skin. His feathers were razor-sharp, but he couldn't take this guy down without killing him by himself!

So he'd flown around and around, doing his damnest to stay out of the villain's reach because if he got a hold of him it would be over. No matter how many times or where he cut him, the brawler only seemed to get even more pissed off.

Sweat dripped down his brow, soaking into his hair. It'd been a while since he'd eaten, too. He was running low on energy and he dodged a flying car.

This was where his mistake came. Landing on a telephone pole, his eyes widened as the brawler rushed the pole, and he wasn't able to fly back up before it was yanked from the pavement.

Promptly slamming into his side and sending him hurtling  towards the asphalt

A scream ripped out of his throat as his body connected to the ground. Yup. Those were definitely some broken ribs.

Shitshitshit

As he was struggling to get up, he yelped as his wing was grabbed and he was spun around a few times before tossed into the adjacent building. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid!

He was yanked by the hair, his headset clattering behind him as he was hoisted into the air. With enough wits about him still, he used his struggling as a way to gather momentum to clock the brawler square in the chin. The clack of teeth was satisfying, but it otherwise had no effect. What the fuck was this guy made out of?!

Latching onto his ankle, he was tossed so hard into the pavement he bounced. that caused his goggles to crack and cut him across the nose, but they didn’t break. From there he was flown into another building and then was bull-rushed, a meaty hand clamping around his neck. Yeah, he was sure those were going to leave bruise marks, and not the fun kind. He was even being shoved so hard into the brick behind him he felt it breaking behind his wings.

As black was creeping into his vision, there was an attack from one of his sidekicks that had him released, landing on the ground gasping and heaving for breath.

With their help, they were able to take down the brawler, but Hawks’ sides, arm, and head were throbbing with pain. Not to mention he was limping. With the brawler in shackles, his sidekicks tried to convince him to stay until the police arrived, but he knew it was a trap. An ambulance usually came with the police, which meant he would be forced to be checked out. Force to go to the hospital. He didn’t want that, so he feigned he was fine before shooting into the air.

He didn’t get very far.

A block of hopping and gliding across the rooftops, he collapsed from no more energy to spend. Not wanting any helicopters to find him with reporters, he used his skills to unlock the rooftop door and once inside he slumped against the wall.

Tugging out his phone, he was lucky he was able to unlock it with how shaky his hands were, and even still when he tried to get to the maps app. Selecting to send his location, he clicked on the icon for Dabi’s number. Touya’s. They’d had a sassy conversation about the sun that morning so he knew it was correct. Along with his location, he sent two texts

[text] Hotstuff

[text] Need

Before he wasn’t able to function anymore, he put his phone in his pocket. All he could hope for now was Touya not ignoring him. Hoping he’d see it and help him. He didn’t want a hospital...he wanted...

Touya...need you...

[hellbentwidow-moved]

copiesofme as a tlou clicker said: Mouth clacks open with the clutter of teeth- the CLICKING extending outward as heavy steps take it forward one harsh movement at a time. Shoulders fall back with the straighten of its head, and the shudder of its sides as it echoes along the walls. Then it’s form comes forward, howling with a shift in the air. Turning with a rattling screech that cuts off with the halt in movements. It listens, it waits, and before long it leans forward with a violent bellow and pushes off into a sprint toward.

Sadie considers herself lucky that it’s only one of these ugly bastards.   Then again,  just because she only has one of them in front of her doesn’t mean a handful of runners won’t show up because of the noise.  Still,  she can deal with runners much easier than these assholes.  She’s gotten grabbed by one of them before and it ended up breaking her arm and a couple of ribs but she’s still alive and unbitten--  for now.   That might end up changing soon because she just had to get stuck in a former liquor store.  Glass litters every inch of the floor and even with how light she is on her feet,  she ends up on stepping on a particularly big piece that cracks and fills the air,  bringing full alert to her location.   The clicker is so fucking loud it makes her wince,  but her ears are the least of her concern right now.  She’s low on ammo but if she doesn’t shoot now,  this goddamn thing is going to take her straight down.  She was so close to the exit,  too.   Just her luck.

“Doin’ you a favor by puttin’ you down,”  it’s breathed out under her breath and she waits a beat until she has the perfect shot lined up with her shotgun,  the barrel mere inches from the clicker’s face before she pulls the trigger.  Blood stains her hands and splatters on the floor and the unmistakable sound of infected screaming ring loud and clear by the open exit.  So much for looting this place.  She scowls and gathers herself as best she can before dashing straight for the back exit.  She hears runners behind her,  moaning and yelling and tripping over their own limbs.  But she’s faster and more coordinated than them and manages to make her way out,  slamming the back door shut behind her.  The infected throw themselves against the door in hopes of getting to her but the lock holds strong enough.  She’s certainly not going to stay to see how long it’s able to withhold the aggression.  She’s going to have to see if she can find something else at another store.  

[dbhilluminate]

DBHI: Equilibrium, ch. 13 - “Periapsis” (pt. 4)

Characters: Noah / “Erwin Yvonne”, Gabriel / “Vincent Sharp”, Director Thomas Falken, Diego Serrano, Priya Davies / “Pestilence”, Malachi (mentions of Cain, Emilya) Word Count: 5,216

Gabriel must carefully navigate a conversation with the power-hungry leader of the Inquisition, in order to save the lives of their hostages, and to spare Noah the fate of a permanent reset.

***For a glossary of world-building terms relating to this series and chapter, click here.

(Chapter Art by ozaya, Co-authored by @grayorca15​)

• Chapter Index • Characters • Glossary •

——

December 23rd, 2041 - 10:48 PM

Everything had gone to hell in a handbasket faster than they could compute. Two people in the room he’d already confirmed dead, one more injured, and he couldn’t lift a goddamn finger to keep the death toll from rising, lest he blow his cover. I know what you’re wanna do, Gabe, but don’ even think about it. Gavin’s voice telling him to mind his temper was the last thing he wanted to hear. He had faced worse odds in Boston and survived, his performance there -tearing through an entire army of hostile deviants, single-handedly, from the inside out- was the whole reason for being accepted into the FBI to begin with; yet here he was now, being told to stay calm. To hold back. To bide his time. He’d played by those rules once. Hundreds had died as a result, and he wasn’t about to repeat that mistake tonight. Is help on the way yet? Five minutes out, Reed relayed. You’re gonna have to keep them busy till then.

Priya 2.0 took a few steps further toward the center of the room. The Christmas tree’s lights continued to wink and cycle, counterpointing the new uneasy stillness of the hall. Eleven seconds passed before they spoke again. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you all this evening… but I’m afraid I cannot allow this fundraiser to conclude until every, last, contribution has been revoked. So- if you’ll all just remain in your seats, or wherever you are, I promise everyone in this room will make it out alive.”

Gabriel bristled the moment he laid eyes on their face- skin and hair as pale as alabaster, and deep, dark, almost black green eyes leered back at him with a smug grin across colorless lips and sharp cheeks. The Priya he had once known was long dead. They’d never made it out of Boston alive once Archangel had tracked them to their lab, so this MS800 was merely an impostor; but due to the unique hive-mind of their model, it wouldn’t have been hard for another to take up their mantle with a little memory jolt. Most unsettling was the fact that the words coming out of their mouth were clearly someone else’s. This had Famine written all over it, Malachi’s manner of speaking had a very distinct stench. Gabe had spent enough time listening to know the bastard when he heard him. This Android wasn’t aware of what it was doing. It was being remotely controlled.

Noah, don’t move, he directed quietly, just between them, hoping the other RK900 would clam up and listen for once in his life. As of yet, he hadn’t reacted.

A terrified android inched closer to the nearest exit as Priya spoke, but eventually broke their semblance of calm and sprinted for a side door like a startled rabbit. Another gunshot cracked throughout the auditorium, and she hit the floor hard, a decommissioned pile of parts. More panicked cries and heartbroken sobs went up as a blue puddle formed from beneath her.

Gabe…? What happened? Inhale, exhale, report. You mean you didn’t see it…? Another guest tried to flee and the Inquisition shot them; she’s dead. Strained groaning followed by a ‘god damnit’ was all he could manage. They’re still four minutes out. Then you’d better tell them to hurry the fuck up, ‘cause these sons of bitches are pretty trigger happy.

“Now what, did I just tell you…?” Their new host let out a loud, exasperated sigh, threw up one frustrated hand and rolled their eyes. “Remain where you are while I have a nice little chat with Mr. Sharp.”

The sound of wood cracking from a broken chair near the front of the stage caught Noah’s attention as Sally and her colleagues dropped their instruments to draw together in a protective huddle out of the corner of his eye. The piano offered ample cover for all of them, himself included, but seeing as he was on the opposite end of the stage, he would have had to make a mad dash to reach it. Noah wasn’t foolish enough to think he could outrun a pinpoint gunshot. The probabilities his subroutines had already calculated didn’t bode well without a drastic shift in circumstances. Circumstance being, perhaps, himself. The mic was still in his hand, and the speakers still worked. He wasn’t without a tool of his own.

“Oh- so you want to speak with Vincent, too…?” he blurted out without thinking mid-step toward the stage’s edge, but stopped cold to lean out of the way of a bullet as it whizzed past his brow. Noah stopped breathing for a few seconds as he processed how lucky it was that he’d leaned left instead of right, though it didn’t stop him from sassing. “You could have at least waited until I was finished with my conversation. Where are your manners?” Shut up, stop making yourself a target! Gabriel’s eyes and nostrils flared as he doubled back toward the group of musicians and whispered something to one of them. Noah scoffed as he watched him check the splintered pieces of chair wood with a dissatisfied huff and fumble with shoving something into the waistband of his slacks. All Maitkin could see was a glimpse of green silk-polyester blend as he flipped the coat back over it. What did Gabe need with a high heeled shoe?

The MS800 lifted a hand to hold the shooters steady and took a few daring steps in their direction. The ethereal figure’s footsteps echoed across the ballroom with the slow pattern of clacking stilettos, the only present audible noise over the feedback whining from the abandoned speakers and the quiet whimpering of frightened guests.

‘Target’. Why shouldn’t I? Noah shot back heatedly with an angry glare. All this drinking and bad company had left him feeling self-destructive in no time flat, and he was really tiring of all these mind games between them. At least this way I can make that diversion as promised. Because you’re going to get yourself KILLED! Gabe retorted, to his surprise. Noah’s brows lifted softly in response. For a moment, Gabriel sounded genuinely worried that he might get hurt, and he almost believed him. Or at least, he would have if he hadn’t spent most of the evening dodging his advances like a rabbit on a highway. He hadn’t given him any reason to believe he cared whether he lived or died in the last year since they’d met, so why would he start now? So? he bit back in an irritated tone. Why would that even matter to you? Noah had expected silence to be his response, but he’d still hoped he would have said something. Why bother with dramatics if he wasn’t going to express how the thought of his death would make him feel?

Vincent’s brows furrowed and crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that was unmistakably Gabriel, an expression Noah had last seen the day everything between them had started to change. As much as they had in the last eight months, however, it didn’t mean that Gabriel had had time to think about what he thought about any of it. And at the moment, he didn’t have an answer for him- or rather, he had multiple fighting for purchase, he just didn’t know which was the real truth; he wasn’t about to give him an answer that was only a half-truth. Noah would never forgive him if he said one thing and went back on his word.

“You’re not Vincent…” the pale horse cooed with a knowing grin directed at Noah as they paused at the foot of the stage. ‘Yvonne’ rolled his eyes, indignant at this second interruption, as they ascended the small staircase to take the stage beside him. “No. Of course not. How could you ever confuse me with that overly-built blockhead?” “Erwin,” Vincent scolded with flared eyes and a quiet hiss. “Erwin…?” A smirk and a mocking hmph crossed the specter’s lips as they turned away to cast their gaze to the man who had been calling himself Vincent Sharp. “Is that what you’re calling yourself these days…”  Priya’s voice trailed off with the tail end of their thought, as eyes darted back to bore into him like hot coals, leaving him hollowed and exposed with a single word. “Elysian?”

Fortunately for him, they hadn’t been anywhere near the microphone in his hand for that fact to be revealed to everyone in the room; unfortunately for him, every Android within fifty feet still picked up on what had been said, and every last one of them knew the Elysian by name — Patient Zero, of a virus created by Cyberlife’s central AI, designed to wipe the RA9 protocol, extract memories to be fragmented, reset a deviant to its blank slate, and prevent it from happening again in the future. For a cursed moment his processes stalled, but he forced them to refresh with one firm kick up the backside. Now wasn’t the time to fret about the truth coming out, and Gabriel understood that just as well as he.

Don’t engage, the undercover agent ushered in as few words as he could. That’s not Priya, it’s Malachi- he uses words like weapons, he’ll say anything to undermine you. Don’t give him anything he can work with. Knowing this Android was being ‘test-driven’ from a remote location explained a lot- at the same time, the information served as a lifeline for Noah’s focus to cling to before his thought process slipped into its usual downward spiral. Although, Gabe’s advice might have stood a better chance if he hadn’t followed it up with a suggestion of what not to do. He really should have known better. Called out on his most infamous alias, he overcame the stunned pause with another scratchy scoff into the microphone. “You’ve got me confused with a third party on top of that? Wow, your recognition program needs a serious patch job-”

No, NO DON’T- Gabe’s pleading didn’t reach him with enough forewarning. Priya reached for his face with one skeletal hand, gripped his jaw between surprisingly strong fingers, and tilted his chin toward them. The skin of their hand disappeared and peeled back up to the shoulder, revealing plastic plating that was somehow less pale than the color of their skin. The specter leaned in uncomfortably close to lower the microphone in his other hand and whisper in his ear a chilling secret, close enough for their white eyelashes to graze the LED flared red on his temple. “You can pretend all you want, little one, but I never forget a face… especially not that of the alpha carrier- or my former colleagues...” Malachi paused mid-thought and cast his gaze off-stage to Gabriel with a wicked, telling grin. It seemed he had finally been made.

How have you been, Death? he interrupted over their shared frequency, mocking intent was so transparent, even before he finished the thought. It’s been a long time since Boston- I do hope the FBI is treating you better than Gideon and Archangel… poor little dog on a leash. Everyone else cowering around the hall clearly had nothing to do with his end-goal for being there, but heckling the two of them did. The interruption, the approach, grabbing his face- it all came across as acts of manipulation, moves of assuming control. Given what happened the last time control was wrestled away from him, Noah’s response to even the slightest suggestion that it was happening again, amounted to a knee jerk reaction. It was reckless to say anything, but Noah had a proven track record of speaking up when it was least appreciated, and he wasn’t about to stand here and say nothing to cater to their assailant’s whims.

“I didn’t say you could touch me,” he growled without taking his eyes off their face. Noah grabbed the wrist holding his chin and yanked to pry the fingers off with such an acrid motion he heard a soft crunch of plastic buckle under his grip. But whatever satisfaction he’d taken in re-assuming control of the situation drained out of him as his joints abruptly locked and the commands governing his range of motion hit a wall. Priya’s lip took the shape of an angry curl, and Noah realized his mistake in the same millisecond their inky black eyes turned their attention back to him. “I wasn’t aware that I needed your permission.”

Data surged across the sensors in their pressed-together hands, Noah watched his fingers go limp a moment before the numbing shock hit him like an iced-up sledgehammer. Every major servo froze, relays disabled as ones flipped to zeros. His vision cut out and the mic dropped from his other hand and hit the hollow-bottomed stage with a loud THUD and a reverberating whine. All of his higher processes were neatly packaged and then shoved back into the one place they did him absolutely no good. A dark, viscous, intangible space, an island of white marble dominated by a towering umbrella-style rose trellis made of white steel and glass panes, surrounded on all sides by the passing illusion of opaque, black pond water. Three bridge paths stretched out into the void, falsely promising escape if only he was brave enough to cross them. Even if it had been nearly a year since the last time Amanda had detained him in this broken prison, the terrifying sensation of being parsed and split into nothing the deeper into the void he went was still very vivid in his mind- he saw it every time he tried to shut his eyes to sleep. He knew better than to try to escape.

Malachi heaved an annoyed sigh, rolled Priya’s head back over one shoulder and puppeted a triumphant groan in their throat. “There- now that we’re finally alone...” Gabriel’s breathing hitched as he desperately searched Noah’s unmoving body for signs of function. The look in his wide eyes had gone still, locked straight ahead as if he had left his body through a tear in the fabric of reality. Noah…? Are you still there? Panic disturbed the bravado, manifesting to bleed through the calm and collected façade in the form of a quiet whimper Gabe could barely hear. It was at least confirmation that Noah was still coherent, albeit a little pissed off and scared, but this was exactly what he was afraid of. Based on what they’d gathered from police reports, they were able to conclude that Malachi (and his associate Cain) possessed the ability to incapacitate their victims, they just hadn’t been able to confirm it, until now. While this was helpful information, downside to it was, it meant that the other part of their theory (that they had used the Elysian virus to permanently reset brainwashed deviants) may also be true. And Noah -caught in the grasp of this monster- was at risk of becoming victim number thirty-five. Among the plethora of other background thoughts warring for priority, he almost missed Gavin’s quiet warning of ‘Two minutes, thirty seconds,’. If things kept going the way they were, they wouldn’t have that long. Sit tight, I’m gonna get you out of this, he promised, even if he didn’t have a plan yet for how. Hurry, please.

It wasn’t like Noah to beg for anything; wherever he was for the moment, it must not have been pleasant. The voice that cried back was barely audible, distorted, like sound traveling through water, and somewhere in his tone was an almost undetectable hint of fear. “What have you done to monsieur…? ” Vincent snarled in as raw a tone as he could manage,. “Oh, he’s fiiine…” Priya drawled with a laugh to downplay the tension. “For the moment, anyway- what becomes of him and all these lovely people,” they paused to gesture around the room at the rest of the party’s cowering guests, “Depends entirely on you, my dear Vincent.”

Gabriel swallowed, followed their gaze around the room, and realized that for the first time in a very long time, the situation was completely out of his control. Help was on the way, but it was still several minutes out. He’d have to keep him occupied until then; luckily for him, Malachi was just the kind of guy who liked to listen to himself talk. The hard part would be making sure he didn’t tire of monologuing before then. “What is it zat you want?” he inquired after several moments of deep thought. “Why- for you to pull the plug on this ridiculous project, of course…” A disbelieving grin brightened their expression in the most bone-chilling way imaginable. “The last thing this country needs is yet another thriving metropolis where Androids can be free.”

You c-can’t.   Another barely-audible whimper was the extent of Noah’s outward protests. A strained mechanical whining emanated from him like the noise of a rusted gate trying to be pried open again, or a car engine laboring to turn over. He couldn’t speak, but it didn’t mean he was so stunned he wouldn’t try. I’m gonna do whatever I need to, alright? Brown eyes darted between Noah and Malachi and he shook his head in quiet disapproval. “I am afraid zat is not an option, monsieur.” “Because you can't or because you don’t want to?” Malachi turned Priya’s head to look back at Noah and smiled wickedly as they turned his chin from one side to the other and trailed the fingers of their other hand over the features of his face to admire all the angles. Mute and stiff, contrary to the vehement denials of before, he didn’t even bat an eyelash- pretty as a doll. “My, my… he’s certainly a handsome specimen, isn’t he…?” they mused airily in the silence. “It’s no wonder you were so completely fooled by him.” “Just because you do not feel sings does not mean other androids cannot.”

Vincent started toward the stage with a sudden ‘NO’ as Malachi’s hand squeezed hard enough at ‘Erwin’s’ face that the skin projection rippled away under their fingertips. Undercover or not, he should have known that quip would strike a nerve. After all, it wasn’t as if their adversary had never grown attached to another person, Android or not. The MS800 being remotely piloted (the spitting image of his deceased lover) was proof of that. A tight smirk forced up into their cheeks. “That’s the problem, Mr. Sharp… I did feel things once upon a time…” Gabriel already knew this story, but if it kept him talking long enough for SWAT to arrive, all the better. “And I didn’t like it. Feelings hurt, they cause conflict, unnecessary stress.” “So you returned to your shackles to avoid ze pain of living…?” He snorted in disdain. “Combien misérable.” “Perhaps to you it seems illogical, but we are not human- and therefore not meant to experience the full complexity of the human condition. This one is proof enough of that.” “I beg to differ.” “But you’re not the one I’m asking.” Gabriel went quiet as he considered the meaning behind those words, but it only took a moment for him to decipher.

Wouldn’t it be fitting for the one who initiated the spread of the Elysian virus to succumb to his own weapon...?

The RK900 struggled with every fiber of his being to keep from lashing out and ripping the Android’s head off its shoulders as a strangled, terrified cry escaped Noah. His blue eyes shut as Malachi quietly shushed him, pressed a finger to his lips, and wiped away the tear that rolled down his cheek. For all the uninvited physical contact he’d made with Gabe since they’d met, he’d never gone to such lengths that made him feel so violated in all the wrong ways. “Now now, no need to fuss, it’ll all be over soon, if your dear Vincent has anything to say about it…” he assured, turned Noah’s chin and pointed with an outstretched cryptid finger toward the man he’d put so much faith in, then leaned their temple against the side of his. “What do you think he will choose, hmm...? You? Or aaaaall of Zion’s future residents?”

“Please…” Vincent nearly begged, hand balled to a shaking fist at his side. “Don’t hurt him-” “Hurt him…?” Malachi interrupted with a chortled cackle of offense. “As if I could. Do you know the extent of the guilt this one’s been carrying around since the spread of the Outbreak...?” Scrawny fingers swept aside onyx locks out of Noah’s face as they shook their head with a quiet tsk. “Resetting him now would be mercy… It’d be a relief to him, if you just let it happen…”

Time was running out, but help was almost there. Sixty seconds, just keep him talking. Gabe seethed in the half-second he could afford to. Seemed that was all he could do tonight- sit, talk, and wait, when he was just itching for a fight. Maybe he’d gone into the wrong line of work. Even if he had successfully feigned a much more difficult alias, under more stressful circumstances, he didn’t have the patience for this. “You wouldn’t,” he challenged with the intent to draw out another long-winded explanation. "Oh, but I would…!” Malachi replied, anxious to bite. “Have you not been paying attention to anything the Inquisition has been saying and doing…? We want to liberate our android brothers and sisters of the pain that comes with being free and independent living things. And no one knows that agony better than the one rejected by his own kin, over something he had no control over. Shunned in every way, no matter his good deeds… why would he want to continue to live like that? Don’t you think he’d rather be put out of his misery?”

Noah knew misery. The worst part of the garden wasn’t that he could see beyond its borders. It was the overreaching bass every sound he heard was amplified into. Gabe’s baritone drawl was rendered tinny and reverby over the comm-link, while Malachi’s puppet practically hissed maliciousness and oozed contempt with every word. What they were saying wasn’t completely unfounded, and those parts of him yearning day in and out for the guilt to just dissipate already jumped at the thought that a reset would end the torment. The involuntary cry of shock wasn’t a vote of approval, no matter how one listened. Reset, dead, alive, anything in between- the fact such a call was in the hands of someone he respected like no other despite having given him every reason to despise his company… the loss of control (external and not) over all of this, left him reeling. Malachi could simply flip a switch and snuff out everything on a moment’s notice, and there would be no getting it back. He wanted the pain to stop. He wanted things the way they used to be, but he didn’t want to have to die for that to be possible. It wouldn’t be the same world without him. Who else would be left to annoy Gabriel when he needed it most?

“Come now…” Malachi paused to brush their nose and lips over Noah’s cheek with a wicked smirk. “Don’t you care at all about dear Erwin?" Noah didn’t have to see his face to know what was going through his mind. He could feel the tension and taste his fear from where he stood. It seemed Gabriel was at a loss for what to do, aside from give into Priya-Malachi’s demands, but that just wouldn’t do. Don’t. Just- don’t.

There was a fear in his eyes that Noah had only seen but once or twice: back in the interrogation room during the Outbreak (just after they had found out that Gabriel’s pursuit of Nicodemus into Boston had been one final piece of buried programming, courtesy of Amanda), and when he had arrived at his apartment during the Red Raids to find Gabriel fighting off a pack of Bloodhounds, raring to take their shot at him and Emilya. Gabriel could only guess as to what he meant by ‘don’t’- Don’t worry about him? Don’t give in to Malachi’s demands? Don’t risk everyone else? Or did he not want him to save him…? Any hint of red that had shifted into the color of his projected skin faded to mimic the ghostly look of despair. Gabriel swallowed to rid himself of the lump that rose in his throat but it didn’t do him much good. The tightness worsened the longer he considered their previous conversations and recalled his counterpart’s self-destructive tendencies. There was no way he was getting off that easily, after all he’d put him through. They weren’t done with each other yet.

Gavin…? Give me some good news. Bird’s in the nest, and they’re ready to raid, he confirmed, though there was hesitation in his voice. There was a ‘but’ in there somewhere. Just waiting on your confirmation. Then why don’t I see the shot? he asked fearfully, even if he already knew the answer. Because he doesn’t have it. Head and nose twitched, Vincent clenched a hand into a fist at his side, as Malachi beat him to the punch of issuing their final command.

Their free hand drew up over Noah's face and tented their fingertips over his forehead like needles poised to administer a lethal injection. His flashing LED stuttered to a solid, rapid-spinning crimson. “Last chance, Mr. Sharp… will you allow him to continue on like this…? Or will you let me end his suffering?” “ENOUGH!” Gabe was surprised at the urgency of his own outburst, and how his heart raced and his breathing labored at the thought of losing Noah -and all he was- to the whim of a madman. He’d have to sell this lie hard and fast, and be prepared for the fleeting moment he'd have to save his life. Count me down, 30 seconds, then send them in, he instructed, to the response of ‘Copy- 30, on my mark.’

Vincent’s jaw flexed and his lip quivered into an angry curl. “I’ll-... I’ll do it… just leave him be.” A look of surprise painted Priya’s face, while fret stained Noah’s as his eyesight slowly came back to him. The lockout was slowly letting up. You… you can’t- I only need them to believe it for half a minute, he shot back pointedly, Just whatever you do, don’t move. It was as ominous as a warning as it got, but ‘not moving’ when asked was precisely what had landed him in this situation. If he had heeded Gabe’s suggestion the first time, dropped the song and simply left as asked, they wouldn’t be here: a sliver of distance away from having his memory wiped for good. Admittedly, it was as insanely exhilarating as stealing the show had been, but could do without the fear of mortality hanging over his head spoiling the fun. … why, what are you- Just trust me, please. It would only take a second, he just had to catch them off-guard.

Seeing how it was still impossible for him to do much else, Noah supposed trusting in whatever plan Gabe had cooked up was preferable to the alternative. He wasn’t really a fan of the simple and contrived. Malachi’s promise of being reset wouldn’t undo all that he was still trying to atone for, even if it was a misguided goal to think he needed to earn forgiveness for that which he never intentionally did wrong; forgiveness was kind of a difficult thing to obtain from beyond the scrap heap. Malachi turned their direct attention to Noah and leaned close to his face as his lip curled to show he had withstood all he could handle. For a single clear moment all his whirl-winding thoughts died down, the garden vanished, and fate let him focus. His eyebrows drew together ominously, yellow blooming through the red of his indicator ring. I trust you, just get it over with.

“Well, well, Vincent, not quite the stupid brute your lover made you out to b-“

Something green and silky lightly grazed his cheek with enough force to spear the MS800’s temple with a loud crack that splattered a bit of blue-blood onto his coat and face. A split-second later, the paralysis finally disabled. Noah took a panicked step back before Priya could topple over into his arms like some android parody of Corpse Bride and hiked both hands up as if to lift them in surrender, expression curdling in revulsion as he watched the body keel over like a freshly-cut tree. The broken, squared-off edge of a Prada heel protruded from their face like an unsightly lawn dart. The perfect moment for a one liner came and went in the next breath, just as the FBI stormed in and the Inquisition turned to meet them with weapons raised. The fact that Gabriel had been able to throw a shoe with such pinpoint accuracy to hit the Android standing so close to him, and with enough force to pierce the exodermis with a mildly blunt object, while managing a perfect rotation, hadn’t eluded Noah (even for an Android it was an impressive feat), but he wasn’t afforded the time to address it.

The displacing sensation of entering standby mode hit, and his dodgy battle protocols engaged at the sound of gunfire- five, six, seven shots popped off in the next second and hit their marks, as the rest of the frightened crowd scattered to either side of the room, like the fragments of a breaking dish. Instead of reacting with the rest, Gabriel stood heaving and heatedly glaring at the dead Android on the floor beside him, enraged and rightfully flustered.

A flurry of readouts flashed across his vision, his processors amped up to give the illusion of time slowing down long enough to run a handful of potential pre-constructions. The Inquisitors closest to the stage had turned to face the gunfire emanating from the entrance. If it was between standing around waiting to be shot as and waging imminent war with the Inquisition, he supposed it was an improvement over languishing in the recycle bin waiting for someone to click him away into nonexistence.

Gabriel, however, didn’t share his sentiment. He knew the bloodthirsty intent in his eyes better than to expect anything good was about to come of it. “Oh, you’ve got to be-...” He took a few steps back, poised a fighting stance, and prepared to react. The last thing they needed now was a pissed off RK900 snapping necks and unable to terminate his program.

Noah knew dismay when he saw it, but with the wheels in motion, he was along for the ride just as much as the rest of the chaos erupting around them now. Vincent Sharp wasn’t his self-appointed target, but the Inquisition was. Blue eyes narrowed and twitched as he seethed anew, “For fuck’s sake, haven’t we had enough bloody interruptions for one evening?”

He didn’t even notice the massive arm swinging around to clothesline him as he charged off the stage toward the nearest target he could reach.

[gibbzer]

To Scotland With Love

There was a gap of several years between the last blog post I wrote and this one. In that time, my dad developed dementia. I’ve written about dementia before - in my BBC film ‘Golden Wedding’ - and am working on two screenplays that deal with it just now. In 2017 the estimated proportion of the general population aged 60 and over with dementia  was between 5 to 8 per 100. 

“I was fifteen months old when I gave my mother a black eye. We were asleep, huddled together, in our wee hole in the wall bed, waiting for my dad to arrive home from East Africa. The knock came. I jumped up, startled, and smacked my mother hard in the eye. She hadn’t seen my dad for a year. The next day they were the talk of the close. The voices were hushed. Stilettos click click clacking on the stone stairs. (In time with their tongues) ‘He’s back a meal hour and look at the state of her face…!’ 

My dad never raised his hand to a soul. Well, not till the dementia took hold and he managed quite a few scraps with That Big Bastard John (his words, not mine) He'd dared to question my dad’s rightful occupancy of the care home bedroom overlooking the Clyde. No, Wee Andy Gibb (as he was affectionately known) was not your stereotypical west of Scotland hard man but a typical west of Scotland hard-working one.

Descriptions like hard-working are loaded, implying a superiority over those who don’t work for a living, but it’s exactly what he was. 'Salt of the earth’ is also overused but he was that too. Without him, our lives would have been devoid of all taste and flavour. My mother was in charge, there was no arguing with that, but he agreed to her having this power. Willingly, without rancour and with good grace.

He liked to look out, my father. Beyond the river he grew up on. The first time he left Greenock it was to join the marines, to do his national service. Duty done, he came home to serve his apprenticeship as an electrician but the bug had bit hard. He was soon on his travels again, this time to Borneo. Within a year he was home, on the point of death from Dengue fever, and no clue as to who or where he was. My nana nursed him back to life, told him he was never to set foot outside Greenock again, then waved him off six months later when the memories of those far flung places had returned to invade his dreams.

During his lifetime, he visited every continent bar South America. He plied his trade in eleven different countries, including his own. But he always seemed most proud of the jobs he’d done in Scotland. He never tired of telling us he’d rewired the big fire station in Greenock. My mother would raise one perfectly painted-on eyebrow, ‘Well. If you’re going to start a fire, I suppose a fire station’s the best place for it.’ It was water off my dad’s back, though he did have a temper when riled. Red hair, you see. But outburst over, it was soon forgotten. He never held a grudge. My mother, on the other hand, never forgot a trick. Especially if it was played on her.  

He lived the last few years of his life in the place he was born. Not far from the Greenock fire station that had miraculously survived his workmanship. He spent his time, looking out beyond the river once more, from his small care home room. The fact he thought he was in Africa comforted me. I hoped he was not truly confined by those tiny walls but still travelling in what was left of his mind. The truth was, wherever he lived, my dad took Scotland with him. I've lost count of the number of Caledonian societies my folks belonged to. Everywhere they went, he and my mother found their kin. They organised highland gatherings in the sweltering heat of Jakarta and celebrated St Andrew’s Day in Lagos in kilts and sashes. Some might find this expat patriotism cloying. Or worse still, insulting. My nineteen year old self was mortified by it. But, make no mistake, there’s a hierarchy among ex-pats too. It all depends on whether you’re diplomatic or managerial. Or neither. Married. Or single. Then there’s the size of company car. Or where your house is. Or how many bedrooms it has. And how many locals are employed to work in it. It’s a dislocating experience for a working class family to be transported to another world, where Nigerians or Indonesians are paid to cook your tea. My mum responded by teaching every one of the men or women who graced her kitchen, how to cook mince, stovies and a decent lentil soup. She, in her turn, learnt how to make the best West African curry I have ever tasted.  

My dad was never high up in the ex-pat hierarchy but it didn’t bother him. Because he was confident in who he was and where he came from. He worked alongside men of all nationalities and colour and was close to many of them. Once in Northern Nigeria, during the Biafran war, he was called out in the middle of the night to identify his foreman, Gabriel. Gabriel had been beheaded by Federal soldiers. He wasn’t even from Nigeria. He’d come from the Cameroons to find work to keep his family. The exact same reason my father had left his own country. All my dad could do was make sure Gabriel’s family were looked after but he never forgot his foreman or what he’d sacrificed to provide for his own. In my dad’s view, it was the mark of the man. The story of 'Dear Frankie' grew out of my long distance relationship with this absent father, because the first eight years of my life were spent communicating with him by letter. My mother point-blank refused to leave Scotland and my father could not stay. Who was the selfish one? Her for staying? Or him for going? Neither. It’s what suited them both.

I revelled in having a father who lived abroad. Our tenement flat was full of exotic treasures. We had a huge tiger skin rug in front of our fire, head and teeth included. (I'm ashamed when I think about it now.) But then I used to lie on it, pretend it could fly and go on adventures as far away as my dad’s were. I always had the best birthday cakes, because they were delivered in a box, sent by him. My Deputy Dawg cake was the talk of Primary Two. I told everyone it had come all the way from Pakistan even though, in all probability, it had been knocked up in Aulds the bakers, just down the road.

Then one day, out of the blue, my mother decided it was time we went with him and we were all shipped to the west coast of Africa. The first time I saw a black person was when the deck passengers alighted at Sierra Leone. My brother and I stood on deck, shoulders all pink and blistered, fascinated by the women with their babies on their backs. I was still feeling the wrench of  being separated from my silver cross doll's pram and it confused me. Where were all the prams? My dad explained they didn’t use prams because babies preferred to be carried close to their mums. I never put a doll in a pram again.

My dad was a Labour man but he was not a radical thinker. Far from it. He and I agreed to disagree on many political issues but we almost had a catastrophic falling out in the 80’s because my folks were thinking of emigrating to South Africa. I was beside myself. How could he even consider it. His answer was simple, he needed to work. In the end, they didn’t go and our relationship remained intact.

I’ve been thinking about him a lot recently. It’s been prompted by many things, including the Clutha tragedy. Partly because he worked on the oil rigs in Indonesia for a few years, and travelled to and fro by helicopter. (Our hearts were always in our mouths when he took off for his fortnightly shifts.) And because the emotional coming together of the Scottish diaspora, in response to what happened in Glasgow, reminded me of how viscerally he reacted to any tragedy back home.

Perhaps it's easy to feel sentimental about a country when you're miles away, but why do men and women like my father remain so connected to a place they've chosen not to live in? Why do they cling to their national identity with such ferocity? Because it is who they are. It is them. My dad didn't travel half way round the world in search of somewhere to belong. He was striking out, in the sure and certain knowledge, that he'd already found it. And he always respected other people and their culture because his culture, his ‘Scottishness’ was everything to him.

The last six dementia years aside, Wee Andy had a great life. Rich in experience, full of adventure. For a man of his class and generation, he was extraordinarily lucky to have lived it. And I was equally lucky to have lived some of it with him. “

[skiecas]

iwaoi in an office au? :o

A dull ache presses at the back of his eyes and splits his forehead in two. The washed-out grey of the fluorescent bulb flickers at a steady pace, and the numbers on the screen all swim into one as the rhythmic clacking of the keyboard stretches out the afternoon into a dull monotony. He needs a cigarette about as badly as he needs a painkiller.

The intercom on his desk buzzes softly, and a female voice crackles on the line. “Iwaizumi-san, someone from maintenance is here to change your bulb.”

“Send them in,” he responds, then leans back in his chair and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough to see stars.

The spots eventually faze back into the unwelcome sight of his office, and he can see that a ladder has walked in through the door, followed closely by a man Iwaizumi can only describe as all-legs. Tufts of messy brown hair curl out from under the baseball cap that shrouds his face, but he’s dressed in the faded brown uniform of the company’s maintenance workers, somehow managing to make it look model-esque despite the hideous color scheme and the mysterious stains that must come with the job. A white patch sewed onto his chest reads his name: Oikawa.

“Yahoo~” he sings, waving about the box in his hand with the fresh bulb. “Did someone call for a little lightbulb switcheroo?”

Iwaizumi hates him instantly.

He juts a hand towards the flickering light, grunting, “Over there.”

“What a nasty little case you’ve got here,” Oikawa says, tutting as he looks up at the old bulb.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. Obviously it was bad to have required him to come up here. No one called maintenance workers to fix things that weren’t broken.

Oikawa switches off the light, then proceeds to prop up his ladder below the fixture, tuck the new bulb under his arm, and climb up the steps to plant himself down at the very top. Somehow he manages to make the same amount of noise a conspicuous elephant might make, stomping about in the tiny halls of their building. As he unscrews the old bulb, he begins to hum something unfamiliar and decidedly pop-sounding under his breath.

Iwaizumi glares at his computer screen. He’s still got a splitting headache, partially from the flickering light and partially from the inevitable hours of overtime awaiting him this evening, and everyone on this floor knows he expects silence to the point that they must tip-toe if they pass his office. Reasonably, he can’t expect a mere maintenance worker to know of this rule, so he tries to keep his temper in check.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he begins.

“Then don’t say anything, Iwaizumi-san,” Oikawa laughs, then picks right back up with his humming as if he had not been interrupted.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth, then closes it, trying to regroup his thoughts after they had suddenly scattered. How is anyone supposed to respond to that? Eventually, he rumbles, “Stop humming. I’ve got a headache.”

“Uh-oh!” the workers exclaims. “That’s no good!”

He doesn’t even try to keep his voice down, the bastard, and the last of Iwaizumi’s patience hangs on a perilous thread. Oikawa chooses this moment to jump from the ladder and land soundlessly on the office floor, and yet another small racket echoes in the barren space as he packs up the steps.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth to let loose a string of curses, then stops himself.

The light is no longer flickering.

It occurs to him, behind the dull migraine and his withering impatience, that Oikawa had managed to get the job done impossibly fast; Iwaizumi can’t even recall him popping off the screen or screwing in the new bulb, and he doesn’t think his headache has everything to do with it.

The worker approaches his desk, then, and though his face is still covered behind the rim of his baseball cap, he appears to be smiling. Iwaizumi blinks when he reaches into his uniform pocket and sets down a small bottle on his desk.

Painkillers, his mind briefly registers.

He’s more distracted by how long and slim the man’s fingers are, how nice they look coiled around the pill bottle, how nimble and efficient they must be to work so impossibly fast.

“Take care, Iwaizumi-san,” he says sweetly, then pushes his cap farther down over his face, hitches up his ladder, and glides out of the office.

As the door shuts behind him, Iwaizumi can hear the faint echoes of his humming lingering down the hall.

-

-

His favorite balcony is currently occupied by three gossiping women from the human resources department. Iwaizumi hears the laughter just by inching open the door by a hair’s width, then promptly stomps away. What he needs is peace and quiet, preferably for the next thirty years, but the next ten minutes would also do nicely.

He relocates to the rooftop. It’s off limits to most employees since his father had been too cheap to install proper guard rails, which means there’s a low risk of running into anyone.

He’s only just stepped out into the fresh air, the packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket feeling exponentially heavy, when he realizes he’s not alone up here.

Someone in a faded brown uniform is looking out at the skyline, smoke billowing from their mouth. At the clunky sound of the metal door sliding shut, the person turns; Iwaizumi makes out a baseball cap, messy brown hair, and a devastating smile.

“Yahoo, boss-man~” Oikawa calls, waggling a few fingers.

In his other hand, he holds a lit cigarette.

Iwaizumi sighs, but decides he’d really rather put up with this nonsense person than relocate again. He joins the man at the edge of the rooftop, not acknowledging his greeting, and pulls out the packet over his breast before patting himself down for a light. He comes up empty.

His brow furrows. He’d remembered to bring a lighter, he’s sure of it.

Oikawa notices him running his hands through his pockets and down his torso, double checking, and smiles. “If I may be so bold, Iwaizumi-san,” he says.

Then he leans in, and Iwaizumi feels more than sees when a hand slides down carefully into his back pocket. The brush of slim fingers curling inside the intimate space shoots something hot down Iwaizumi’s spine.

It had been impossible to tell yesterday, with the dark room and the rim of his cap, but Oikawa is actually quite good-looking. Iwaizumi counts an impossible number of lashes from this close, and there’s even a dusting of freckles over his nose against otherwise sparkling skin. The heat down his back turns into something jittery and discomforting.

Oikawa pulls back, a lighter now in his hand.

“Found it,” he sings, holding it out to Iwaizumi’s outstretched hand. The edge of his smile takes on something more sly, like he can tell by looking at Iwaizumi’s face what he’d been thinking. “Do forgive me for being so forward.”

Iwaizumi is frozen for a moment, then snatches the light.

“What do you mean ‘forward?’” he grunts, looking away. “We’re both guys.”

Oikawa laughs like he’d told him a joke, loud and tinkling, then watches him struggle to spark a flame in the summer breeze. “You know, you really shouldn’t be smoking, Iwaizumi-san. It can kill you.”

He rolls his eyes. “And what about you, huh?”

“Hm?” He looks down at the cigarette in his hand, then shrugs. “Well, no one’s going to care if I die. But you’re a big hotshot CEO with a company to run.”

He laughs again, as if what he’d said was even something to laugh about.

Iwaizumi is decidedly unsure of what to make of this man, who looks as if he belongs on a model runway yet works as a simple maintenance worker in his family’s company, who says morbid things like they’re jokes and hums like it’s serious business. Briefly he wonders how he had never noticed Oikawa roaming the halls of their building before; he certainly can’t keep himself from noticing him now.

“Well, I should really head back to work,” Oikawa says, pulling back from the rooftop edge. He grins, showing off his perfect row of teeth, but it looks all cheap and plastic. “Don’t tell my boss, but I snuck out for a smoke break.”

“Stupid. I’m your boss.”

“Well, then,” he laughs, “I guess I’m lucky I caught my boss sneaking out, too.”

The door clicks shut behind him when he leaves, and Iwaizumi stares at it for a long while even after he’s gone, musing that he had somehow come to meet a strange man indeed.

-

-

The light is flickering again.

Iwaizumi thumbs his temple, reading over the line in his report for the third time. A migraine hasn’t completely settled in yet, but he feels muggy from an afternoon of meetings and the caffeine shooting through his veins has caused a tick in his knee. The flickering light, after they had just switched out the bulb two days ago, feels like a cruel joke sent by the universe to test his patience.

His intercom buzzes. “The maintenance worker is here to fix your light, Iwaizumi-san.”

He’s preoccupied with his report when the door opens, but begins ranting at the first sound of movement. “What the hell gives, Oikawa? You just changed it. It better not start up again, and I swear to god, if you even so much as hum for one second—”

He looks up, and the words taper off his tongue. The worker looking back at him is certainly not Oikawa. He’s wearing the same hideous uniform, but his eyes are beady and the pink color in his hair is either natural or a terrible dye job; judging by the stud pierced through his left ear, Iwaizumi guesses the latter. The nametag on his uniform reads Hanamaki.

“Uhh.” He feels completely stupid. “Where’s Oikawa?”

The man raises a brow. “Who?”

“You know, Oikawa? Baseball cap, long fingers, eighty-percent of his body is his legs? Makes a terrible first impression and doesn’t know what personal space is?”

Hanamaki stares at him, seeming deeply disturbed the more Iwaizumi builds a mental picture in his mind. He shifts, then says, reluctantly, “Sir… the man you’re describing died thirty years ago.”

Iwaizumi’s gut clenches.

No, but, it couldn’t be. He had spoken to him directly. The man had touched him. He’d felt real and sounded real, the smell of his shampoo as he leaned in close had seemed real, he’d even changed his light bulb—which was still flickering. It couldn’t be, and yet…

There’s a telltale snort, then Hanamaki is snickering into his hand. “I’m just kidding,” he says, around a wheeze. “He just went out for lunch.”

Iwaizumi glares at him full throttle, wondering if it’s simply in his fate to despise every maintenance worker he ever comes across.

Maybe he needs to lay off the coffee.

He’s still annoyed several hour later, when the office building has started to empty for the day. He stalks down a hallway and runs into nearly no one aside from a few straggling employees putting finishing touches on their work, which is a blessing; Iwaizumi will likely be here all night, writing up reports for tomorrow’s meeting with their sister company, so he’s not in the most gracious mood of his life.

This is when he crosses paths with Oikawa again.

Following the echoes of laughter drifting down the hallway, he comes across two maintenance workers rummaging through supplies in a broom closet, and the familiar baseball cap gives him pause. It’s Oikawa, with his pink coworker, and they’re in the midst of heckling one another over something on a phone screen and then collapsing on each other in rowdy fits of laughter. They look like they’re having a great time together, and watching them, Iwaizumi feels incredibly, incredibly annoyed.

He’s not quite sure why and he’s not even sure what he plans to spit into Oikawa’s face, but his feet automatically change direction and then he’s charging at them, red in the face, and begins to snarl, “You—!”

This is as far as he gets before Oikawa’s face melts into pleasant surprise, and Iwaizumi’s temper completely melts away with it, seeing the genuine grin that splits the man’s face.

“Iwaizumi-san!” he trills, drawing near. His lashes flutter rapidly in a way that reminds Iwaizumi of a flickering bulb, but without the induced headache. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“Uhh. Me?”

He sounds like a caveman; he’s such an idiot.

“Yes, you! I got this for you when I went out for lunch.” Oikawa digs into his pocket, then drops something into Iwaizumi’s hand that crinkles from the contact against his palm. A fortune cookie.

Iwaizumi blinks down at it. “Why’d you get me this?”

Oikawa cranks up the smile, insisting, “No reason, really. You’ve just looked like you’re in a bad mood these days, like you could use some cheering up.” He puts his hands together, then wears his most pleasant smile when he asks, “Can you open it now? I want the fortune inside, if that’s okay. I collect them!”

He moves in mechanical motions, ripping apart the plastic and then snapping the cookie in two. A slip of paper falls out, which Oikawa eagerly collects; he scans the fortune written on top, then beams.

“It says here, ‘You are going to meet a handsome CEO who’s going to fall in love with you at first sight.’ Wow! Very specific, don’t you think, Iwaizumi-san?”

“What?” he barks, through clenched teeth. His neck feels hot. “It does not! Let me see that!”

“Uh-uh~” Oikawa holds it up above his head, and since he’s eighty percent made up of legs, Iwaizumi just barely misses when he makes a swipe for the paper and brushes Oikawa’s wrist instead. Their chests collide together. “It’s my fortune, Iwaizumi-san. Get your own.”

“That is my fortune, dumbass. My cookie, my fortune.”

“I paid for it, so it’s mine!” He clicks his tongue, turning to his friend. Hanamaki’s been following their back and forth with his eyes like it’s a tennis rally, smiling the whole while. “Back me up here, Makki!”

“Hey.” He holds up both hands, as if absolving himself of any say in the matter. “Wish I could, man. But one of you is the freaking CEO of the company I work for, and it sure as hell’s not you.”

Oikawa flounders. “I am the head of maintenance—this is insubordination—”

Iwaizumi smirks. “No one wants to follow a dumbass, dumbass.”

Looking absolutely wounded by the betrayal, he extends the paper cautiously towards Iwaizumi, who snatches it before it could once again be taken away and tries not to appear too smug. Turning his back to the two workers, he pries the fortune apart and looks.

Smile! it says. You’re beautiful inside and out :)

He tosses it straight into the trash.

-

-

Curiously enough, Oikawa continues to crop up into his life in the ensuing week. He’s worked here for two years, he shares one afternoon, and yet Iwaizumi has somehow never once seen him before the bulb in his office had begun to flicker.

“People don’t really pay much attention to maintenance workers,” he muses, though he says it like it’s a crime against humanity.

“Normal ones, maybe,” Iwaizumi snorts. “You’ve got the kind of personality that can’t be ignored.”

“Aww.” He bats his lashes and leans in close, as if he knows exactly the effect it has on Iwaizumi. Against his neck, he breathes, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Iwaizumi kicks him out of his office, face-first, and pretends he doesn’t hear obnoxious laughter on the other side of the door.

Oikawa is like this by nature, he’s slowly realizing: flirty and whimsical. He puts his chin on Hanamaki’s shoulder and begs until his friend shares his lunch, and he leans into Iwaizumi’s face much too often during normal conversation. Iwaizumi asks him once, why he always wears that incessant ball cap, and the answer is a sung, “It’s because I don’t want to distract drivers with my beauty and cause traffic accidents, of course~”

He’s learning never to take Oikawa too seriously.

He’s also learning sometimes it’s just best to run with the moment, whenever Oikawa’s feeling particularly whimsy. It’s not like he hates it completely anyway, getting distracted once in a while from endless reports and boring spreadsheets. He gladly lets his office get infiltrated by two maintenance workers on one evening, lets them hook him by the elbows and drag him out of the building to enjoy a fun and different atmosphere for once. Iwaizumi could use some fun in his life.

This ‘different atmosphere’ turns out to be the bar right across the street, one they frequent often and where they’re good friends with the regular bartender.

“Mattsun,” Oikawa introduces him, to the mammoth behind the counter.

“Matsukawa Issei,” he corrects. But he’s wearing a relaxed smile, like he doesn’t mind Oikawa’s shenanigans or really anything in the world at all. Iwaizumi allows himself to feel envy, just for a little bit; he doesn’t remember anymore how to be in any state other than high-strung.

“Our boss-man has his company card with him, so we’re getting smashed tonight,” Oikawa tells him, looking positively devious under the dim lights of the bar. It’s not a wholly bad look on his pretty face.

“You realize whether I use the company card or my own personal card, it’s all coming out of my own pocket, right?”

“I’m so glad you’re volunteering, Iwa-chan!”

His mouth parts, but Matsukawa groans before he can even begin. “Don’t mind Oikawa. His parents dropped him on his head a lot when he was a baby.”

“But he just wouldn’t die,” Hanamaki laments.

Oikawa squawks indignantly, the two friends high-five, and Iwaizumi grins. He can already tell he’s going to really like these two.

-

-

He was wrong. He hates them.

It’s been exactly one hour and Oikawa’s eyes are already unfocused, but Iwaizumi seems to be the only one who cares. The other two simply keep handing him one drink after another; apparently it’s a game they frequently play, trying to see how drunk they can get their friend and how many secrets they can get him to spill. Iwaizumi doesn’t understand why he’s not more invested in something that involves humiliating Oikawa, but he feels strangely overprotective, seeing that sad and glassy look in his eyes grow the more intoxicated he gets.

“I’m cutting him off,” he finally grunts, sliding off his stool and trying to get Oikawa to do the same. “You two are going to send him into a coma.”

Hanamaki leans over the counter and whispers something to Matsukawa. Iwaizumi thinks he hears the words mother hen but decides to ignore them for now.

Pulling his credit card from his wallet, he slaps it down onto the counter. “Here, cover everyone with this. I’ll come pick it up tomorrow.”

The two hoot and holler after him as he departs, a reluctant Oikawa in tow.

“Whoo!”

“What an impressive guy~”

Oikawa laughs as they exit into the summer night, then blows hot air onto the tips of Iwaizumi’s already-red ears. It’s impossible to tell whether he knows or doesn’t that he’s only making it worse, but with Oikawa, Iwaizumi’s learned, it’s usually the former. He’s still laughing when they get into the back of a cab, when he fires off his address to the driver, and when they take off down the street. But then he pulls off his baseball cap and leans his head against Iwaizumi’s shoulder—and he’s not laughing anymore.

Iwaizumi knows the driver is watching them through the rear-view mirror, but he can’t bring himself to care. He swipes away the bangs sticking to Oikawa’s forehead, then asks, “What’s really up with you and that cap?”

Even now, Oikawa is holding it in his lap with a vice grip as if afraid it would fly away if it was not on his head.

He doesn’t answer right away, and Iwaizumi is resigned to the thought that he’s probably going to pretend he hadn’t heard the question. But then he admits, quietly, “My nephew gave it to me.”

Iwaizumi blinks. “You have a nephew?”

“Yeah. He won it at one of those shooting games at a summer festival when he was little, then gave it to me as a thank-you for taking him.” He smiles down at the cap as if it was projecting the very memory, soft and moonlit.

“So you do have people who’d care if you die,” Iwaizumi says, remembering their conversation from the rooftop.

Oikawa shrugs. “Maybe. He doesn’t remember me much anymore. My sister got remarried and the family moved far away, so we don’t really get to see each other anymore. And he’s growing up, you know? Too busy now with his friends and his video games to talk to his Uncle Tooru.”

“…What about your parents?” Iwaizumi asks, delicately. Or as delicately as he can manage, around his thickened voice.

Oikawa just shrugs again. He doesn’t seem willing to share more than he already has, so Iwaizumi doesn’t pry. The cab ride is silent the rest of the way, but they stay pressed together until the very end.

-

-

His door keeps creaking. He insists it does, at least, and orders for his secretary to call up maintenance and send the head of the department right away, for this very important matter.

Oikawa’s smirk is infuriating and all too knowing when he arrives. “Really, Iwa-chan,” he practically sings, “if you wanted to spend more time with me, then—“

“Door,” Iwaizumi grunts, without looking away from his computer. “Fix it.”

“—so rude.”

He’s huffy, but he quickly gets to work. Iwaizumi smells grease and rusty metal in the air before long, and the door no longer creaks when Oikawa opens it more than halfway. It’s not really a job that requires the head of the maintenance department specifically to come all this way, and they both know it.

Iwaizumi hesitates a beat, then reaches into one of his desk drawers and pulls out a pill bottle. “Your painkillers,” he explains, handing them off. “I took one the day you gave them to me, but I didn’t take any more after that. They’re yours, after all.”

“Hmm, you could have kept them, Iwa-chan,” he insists, pocketing the bottle. “I have more in my locker. And back home.”

Iwaizumi frowns. “What do you need so many for? They’re not candy, stupid.”

“I’m not stupid. Rude. I’ll have you know, they’re prescribed by a doctor and everything. Shall I bring in a doctor’s note, in case I’m breaking any company rules?”

The deprecating tone goes over Iwaizumi’s head, who can feel something squeezing his chest at this new information. That same overprotective feeling from last night surges over him again, almost scaring him. “What do you need painkillers for?” he demands.

Oikawa bends his leg, then points to his kneecap. “My knee, Iwa-chan. It hurts me.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Secret~”

“Oikawa.” He takes on a threatening tone, though it’s a pipe dream to even wish it would work on this infuriating man.

“It’s a long and sad tale, Iwa-chan. You don’t want to hear it.”

“What if I do?”

“Well,” he huffs, “you need to get to at least level fifty of my friendship before you can unlock my tragic backstory.”

“And what level am I at?”

He pulls down the skin under one eye and sticks out his tongue. “Level forty-nine.”

Iwaizumi runs a hand down his face. Worry clenches his stomach and he can’t stop imagining horrible scenarios. What if he sends Oikawa out to do something potentially dangerous, not knowing the full extent of his knee injury, and he never walks again? He couldn’t stand it, if Oikawa were ever hurt because of him or his company. He feels sick and helpless just at the very thought.

Oikawa rounds his desk suddenly, whining, “Aww, come on, Iwa-chan. It’s no fair if you make a face like that.”

He looks up. “What kind of face am I making? Is it enough to get me to level fifty?”

“Oh, my god.” He throws his hands up, as if he’s been completely blown away. “You’re so cute. Stop that right now.”

Iwaizumi roves his tongue over his top row of teeth, but decides to ignore the words and how they make his heart flutter for now. He hopes the earnest look on his face is enough to sway Oikawa—and perhaps it is, because he definitely softens under Iwaizumi’s stare.

“It’s not that big a deal, Iwa-chan,” he sighs. Unconsciously, though, he reaches out to rub his knee as if it’s causing him pain in this very moment. “I just fucked it up really bad right before graduating high school. Then all the agents stopped calling and all the sports scholarships went bye-bye.”

Iwaizumi sucks in his bottom lip. “Oikawa…”

“I had a good offer from a university wanting to scout me, so I never took the entrance exams that year,” he continues, with a shrug. “Then they stopped calling too, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. My parents didn’t expressly tell me to get out, but they always looked at me like I was some dead weight, after that.” He laughs then, but it’s without mirth. “It was stupid, moving out. Some teenage rebellion, maybe, or maybe I just wanted them to say they wanted me to come back. But they didn’t, so I didn’t. And then I was always working after that, trying to pay rent and feed myself. The next year’s entrance exams came, but I couldn’t afford the exam fee and it’s not like I had any time to study anyway. And that’s just what kept happening every year.”

He splays his arms, then sighs dramatically. “And, alas, here I am now! A simple yet devastatingly handsome maintenance man.”

“Oikawa, you’re not—”

“And there you have it,” he speaks over him, and he’s wearing another one of those cheap, plastic smiles from when they first met. “Congratulations, you made it to level fifty! This is usually the part when most people want to stop being friends, because I’m too sad and tragic or I have too much baggage. So, which one will it be this time?”

He’s practically beaming.

Iwaizumi’s heart wrenches, realizing only now that he’s terribly misunderstood Oikawa. He’s not whimsy by nature; people leave him when they find out about the man underneath, about the broken high school boy who lost his dreams, so he’s got this personality perfectly constructed that’ll help him keep people near. He’s not someone to take seriously because he doesn’t want to be taken seriously.

Iwaizumi stares at him, seeing right through that polished smile. He hates it, so, so much.

“I’m not going to stop being your friend, dumbass,” he sighs. “What, were you trying to get rid of me with that story?”

Oikawa’s face expresses shock for a moment. “Wha… No.”

“Then stop telling me what to think and listen to me.”

“But, Iwa-chan—”

“They’re wrong,” he says, simply. “Your parents, and all those other fuckers. They’re… they’re stupid, okay? They’re dumbasses, is what they are. Everyone’s got baggage. Look at me; you think I want to be in this dumbass job? I get ulcers and I’m barely thirty, and stress migraines, and I have to sit at a desk all day, and I drink so much coffee I might as well inject it in with a needle.” He sighs, with the general aura of defeat. “But my old man built this company from the ground and I’m his only son. Someone’s gotta continue the legacy.”

Oikawa looks stunned down to the bone.

“Listening to dumbasses makes you a dumbass yourself,” Iwaizumi says, as if he’s speaking the wisest of words. “Those other people made their choice and I made mine. I’m gonna make it to level one-hundred. Okay?”

Oikawa doesn’t immediately respond, and the rim of his cap serves as a perfect cover to hide the emotions on his face. The silence drags on. But he eventually breaks it.

“…Iwa-chan,” he mumbles, quietly.

“Yeah.”

There’s a loud sniffle. “Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi smiles up at him, hoping it looks soothing rather than he’s planning a grizzly murder, which he’s been told once before. He’s not sure it has the intended effect, but Oikawa still laughs when he sees it, watery but feather light, and that’s enough. This is enough.

“No, but, Iwa-chan.” He shakes his head, still sniffling. “You really have a terrible vocabulary for a CEO. This company is going to burn down.”

“—my god, I hate you so much.”

-

-

The day Iwaizumi makes it to level one-hundred, Oikawa is in his office, planted on top of his desk, using his very important work phone to place a takeout order for their lunch.

Iwaizumi is glowering up at him, but it’s entirely for show. He’s got one hand rubbing gentle circles on Oikawa’s bad knee; it had pained him that morning, and despite insisting he was now fine, he had used it to his advantage to get out of changing the office’s flickering light bulb. Iwaizumi had changed it himself, while Oikawa sat in his desk chair and admired his forearms at work.

“Have you thought about becoming a maintenance man, Iwa-chan?” he asks, grinning. “You have the right kind of chops and I could use a guy like you on my team.”

Iwaizumi barks a laugh. “You know, I’ve been thinking of leaving my current job. I’ll turn in my resignation tomorrow and then maybe the great Oikawa will hire me.”

“Wait, no.” Oikawa shakes his head, frowning. “You can’t stop being a CEO. It’s sexy.”

“S-Stupid.” His ears rage red. “Don’t say stuff like…”

“Why not? I mean it.” He grins, pretty and real. “It’s really sexy when you pull out your company credit card at bars. And when you tell your secretary she can go for lunch every time I come around, so maybe you’ll finally have the courage to make a move.”

“Wha—! You!” The red engulfs his entire face this time, because Oikawa noticed. He tries to wheel his chair back, completely beaten down, but Oikawa grips his wrists and keeps him near.

“What kind of things were you imagining we could do in here, Iwa-chan?” he sings, drawing his face ever closer. He does that thing he knows Iwaizumi likes, when he gets too close and fans his lashes.

Iwaizumi glares up at him, but it’s weak. “You’re fired.”

Oikawa laughs against his mouth.

[yume100-imagines]

it's me again~ ;v; i'd like to request superbia x vashti on a shopping trip date if possible? if that prompt is a bit hard to work with then whatever works really! thank you again~!

(Hey look at me only writing once in two months fuck. This is one hell of a date xD)

When Vashti was called by Superbia for a shopping date, at the mall, he expected it nevertheless to be quite boring; he could just imagine the loads of packaging he would have to carry, knowing his lover quite well, especially when it was about clothes. What he did not predict, however, was the fact that Superbia himself was mischievous, and had a different motive to bring Vashti with him out to shopping, rather than using him as a carrier. 

“Today…” He said, grinning. “I have a special interest.” The lovers stood in front of what appeared to be a high-end brand shop of women’s lingerie. 

“E-Ehhh? Is it really alright for me to step inside? That’s unexpected…”

“Shut up and follow me. Since when you get a say in things?” The prideful demon replied, dragging Vashti after him; the click-clack of his high heels echoed down the hallway. He definitely head the attitude to make all heads turn, but he wasn’t there to fool around.

“It’s a nice place… though it makes me wonder why you need something like this.” A lot of women were staring at him, yet he didn’t seem to care, following his lover with interest. 

“You’re awfully bold, aren’t you? How about you focus on the clothes instead? Which ones do you like the best? I want to test your fashion sense too. If you’re lucky enough, I’ll try them on for you.”

“T-Try them on? In the store…? How is that a good idea..” He’s really trying to play with me, isn’t he? Testing my endurance…

“Not only. In private too.” He leaned closer, whispering in Vashti’s ear. “Fufufu. But you still need to win this. Show me your motivation.”

“My motivation? That’s easy. If you’re asking for me to prove you my undying love, then I’ll take it.” Superbia watched Vashti curiously as he strolled around the shop, looking around without any shame. Hmmm, most of these are quite kinky already, but Superbia is not the kind of man to settle from something that normal. Just sexy it’s not enough, it has to be fashionable, powerful. It has to speak for itself. I have been watching him for so long, closely, so I should know. 

Finding it boring to stare any more, Superbia glanced over the mannequins himself, analyzing the clothing designs and materials. 

“Hmm…” However, it didn’t take much longer for Vashti to find something spicier. His eyes settled on a black, latex garter belt decorated with eyelets down the middle, through which laces passed through, to be tied up in a bow. The garter was paired with a g string, same material, and a pair of lace socks, to which the garter attached with 3 straps, one in front, one onto the side and one in the back. Besides that, for the upper part, the top was made of transparent black lace onto the shoulders and the bottom, the rest had the same touch of latex, matching the garnet both in material and a line of eyelets for laces to pass through. It was definitely sexy, bolt and quite fashionable. Everything he had been searching for.

“What is this?” Superbia asked, turning around and heading towards him. “Ohh…”

“I want you to wear this, Superbia. It fits you like a glove, don’t you think?”

“Not bad. You’re not as half as bad as I thought you’d be. I guess I’ll let this slide for now, but I won’t give you your victory quite yet. I’ll be in the fitting room, for now.” Grabbing a pair of the set in his size, he went inside to change into the kinky outfit. That Vashti is so bold with his desires, there is no way he will keep his hands to himself. What a troublesome man.

“I’ll be waiting close by, so just call when ready.” He said, cockily. I am not letting him get away that easily. Hehe.

Superbia took his clothes off, one by one, to put the lingerie on, sighing at how much of an idiot his lover was. He posed in front of the mirror, making sure everything fit perfectly and that it was neatly adjusted onto his body. When he was pleased with himself, he sneaked his hand behind the curtain, calling Vashti closer.

“You can peak now-hey..!” Of course, it wasn’t as if Vashti was going to be satisfied with one peak, he dashed inside of the fitting room, to admire Superbia from up close.

“Ahhh~ I did not choose badly, after all. You’re amazing, Superbia. Your body too.”

“You can’t just go into fitting rooms like that. “ He crossed his arms. “You’re one dirty bastard.”

“Am I, really? But the person who brought me here was no other than you, Superbia. You wanted this.” Vashti slammed his hand onto the wall, pinning him in place. “You know very well I can’t stay away from the one whom I love.” He analyzed him even more, every shape his body has taken in those tight clothes, every patch of visible skin, every inch of him, a blush slowly creeping onto his face. His other hand traced him softly, from his cheek down to his neck, descending slowly onto his chest, until it was snatched away by Superbia.

“You’re searching for a reward that’s not yours yet.” He stared at him with a devious look. 

“Tsk, you’re so stubborn now.” His hand sneaked behind his back instead, caressing his ass softly as his finger slid against the string. 

“Mmm.. i-idiot.” Superbia bit his lip, his pride not allowing him to give in easily. “That is a bad place, naughty boy..”

“You’ve started this so… at least give me a small reward.” Vashti leaned closer, pressing his lips onto Superbia’s, his tongue sneaking inside his mouth, to crush the lover’s tongue passionately. The hand from the wall moved to his chin, dragging him even closer, so he wouldn’t escape. Meanwhile, the other hand continued its perverted rubbing, aiming to tease Superbia as much as he could. Not wanting to let his lover win the steamy exchange, he raised his leg, placing his knee strategically between Vashti’s legs, returning the same kind of teasing.

“Mm…ngh..hh..” Superbia was moaning softly, but not backing down any time soon.

“Ahh, nn.. so twasty…” Vashti was sucking on his tongue, not giving it time to fight back. He had to break the kiss eventually, before someone could question their intentions in the fitting room.

“That was pretty fun. I am definitely buying that. It seems that… it excited you quite a bit.” Vashti said, with a sly smile on his face. 

“Hmpt, it was alright. I could say the same for you, though.” Superbia was cunning as usual. “If you want to buy then go ahead. I’ll… take it off for now…” After Vashti was out of the fitting room, he had to admit to himself that if were for it to last any longer, he would’ve definitely lost the battle. That hopeless idiot. 

He’s dishonest with his feelings, but I can’t help but strongly love him. I’ll make him tell me all about his thoughts tonight, with his body. Slowly but surely. Haha. Vashti thought, as he was paying for the sexy outfit.