#going off of less than stellar sleep schedule

[nebuladreamz]

[femmmie]

Review of Smosh's Funeral Roast

I am harsh at times, but know it all comes from a place of love!

Spoilers under the cut

I live in Europe. This is relevant because of timezones: the funeral roast of Anthony Padilla was live at 6pm for them, meaning 3am for me. I am not the youthful insomniac I once was so I had to train my sleep schedule the entire week - otherwise I would miss it because I fell asleep. But I wanted to witness this live. I love smosh.

The trailer for this roast deserves an award: Ian and the cast have a movie night as suddenly the light turns blue and everyone but Ian freezes. He seems to know what's going on and discovers a zombie or ghost like Anthony levitating. The cast of the roast are all introduced and all play a gothic, churchy kind of character. See the full trailer here (it's currently at 666k views, how fun):

Around 1am I got impatient and decided not to wait for my alarm clock but to install myself on the couch, with a blanket and a scarf, and a hot cup of tea, god knows I would need it. I watched episodes of the Scott Pilgrim Netflix series to kill the time. The character Todd Ingram reminded me a lot of Anthony and I wonder whether Anthony has 'vegan superpowers' as well. Probably so.

Finally, the pre-show begins. This is pretty uneventful as they play a game and succesfully convince thousands of viewers to buy their tickets to the main show. I look at them. Everyone is gorgeous. But I can't look away from Ian and Anthony. And here is where I stray from actually reviewing the show to let my inner fangirl out: holy fuck they are hot. Me and my friends on tumblr have been making 'forgive me Father, for I have SINNED' jokes because his character, 'the pastor', just brings that out in people. We're not used to Ian in black, or in a robe, and he looks phenomenal. And then there is Anthony, clothed in a ridiculous Harry Styles-esque lace top with lace gloves, resting his head on Ian's shoulder. It's such a cute moment, Ian pushes him upright. He can be alive for a second before his funeral. My heart melts. Honerable mention: Courtney's bikini girl cleavage right behind Ian. The girls were ready to rock. Okay, okay, back to the review.

The room feels kind of small and a bit claustrophobic. The Smosh art dept. always steps up, so the stained glass "friendship never dies" high-five looks incredible, and the megachad-Anthony portrait hilarious. The casket is huge. But the props make the set look even smaller. I think the problem is the cameras. I realize how difficult camerawork is when you have multiple focus points to switch between, but next time they should do a lot of practice with this to streamline, to get everyone in the shot and better capture people's reactions to the roasts.

Ian walks in. He starts off with a bit about who Anthony is: a hot, hardworking guy with a big dick. Those are the main takeaways of his roasts.

Amanda is next. She looks beautiful but very wacky. Her deliverance and accent are stellar, though. She truly is top talent at Smosh. Her roasts are also some of the most scorching of the night. She doesn't shy away from calling out Anthony's past problematic behavior and less than stellar performance in the bedroom ("look it up!") She gets a round of applause and deservedly so.

Tommy follows with a kind of angry roast, and proceeds to read the will, from which nobody comes away unscathed. I feels like his words about Anthony supposedly hating the cast are a necessary evil. Just the same day Anthony posted his interview with Shayne on his personal channel. There we learned that Shayne didn't know before if Ian and Anthony actually had wanted to hire them. Anthony said they were very much involved, something I don't know whether to believe. As apparently, Ian never talked about it with Shayne either, for all those years. Shayne had also been very apprehensive when Anthony came back, not knowing what would happen and the first change was to boot the entire cast off the main channel. I feel like Tommy's roast puts the topic on the table and hopefully they will talk about it more until nobody has any doubt left.

Now I have to insert that one of my main critiques of the night is that lots of people both did a lot of obvious jokes (tattoos, leaving smosh, general appearance) and did not go hard enough. Anthony kind of has an awkward CEO vibe (he's not the ceo but still) about him that seems to make even the cast a bit wary of him. I had hoped for jokes about that.

Brandon Rogers is next and rightfully points out the lack of celebrities in the line-up. Doesn't Anthony have more friends who want to roast him? Either he doesn't or the rest of Smosh don't have access to them. Which is both fine, because it is a Smosh party after all.

Arasha comes in swinging with all kinds of Zoomer slang that I frankly don't understand but her deadpan delivery is like a breath of fresh air. She ends with a very nice message. That kind of undercuts her roasts though, I wish she would have been meaner.

Now it is time for the musical half-time show, which actually deserves its own review. Performed by Angela and Chanse, this is incredible. By far, the most professional part of the evening. These are no theater kids, as they still call themselves. These are Broadway acTORS! I was really taken away by their talent. Not only do they act, but they also sing amazingly? Did you hear Angela do screamo?! And Chanse's riffs? They pointedly mention the sexual tension between Ian and Anthony, both on- and off screen. This has been occupying my mind ever since. Wow, sorry I went fangirl-mode again. But the halftime show simply is that good. Keith makes an appearance at the end and brings the show back down to earth with his humor.

The biggest surprise guests are next in what I can only describe as Dan telling the horny tale of his years long obsession with Anthony, and the many, many times he unloaded on the 'sexy Anthony' calender (which is a real calender, I was there when it came out but was broke at the time, darnit). Dan and Phil have been shedding their PG personas on their own channels for a while now, but for those who don't watch them daily this December - they're doing gamingmas and it's chaos - it is shocking what X-rated stuff comes out of their mouths. Anthony is visibly taken aback. Good!

As the show progresses, Ian keeps moderating as the pastor. It is great to see him so in control and enjoying the roast of his best friend. The joke of Ian not being able to show his emotions comes up a lot, but today I see him mainly just having fun.

Of course, then there is Bikini Girl, whom I had high hopes for, maybe too high. She is hilarious, but nothing really stings. Courtney does also direct the whole show, so super kudos to her. I just don't think she has the best roasts. She is followed by Rhett and Link, who just do their regular thing. It is funny but not very original. You can only hear so many tattoo jokes before it gets old. We do see Link's bare torso, so a win for fangirls (gender neutral).

Then Shayne, or should I say the Chosen has his turn. He is absolutely in character and does great. I just don't know if the Chosen is the best person to deliver roasts. It feels more like a Shayne party than a roast of Anthony. Which enough people love all the same, I'm sure.

Angela is 'the vessel', a possessed girl, reading the roasts from the audience. These roasts are very mid (they should have included mine! /j), but her delivery is again stellar. Smosh is really lucky to have her.

And last but not least, Ian goes on a second roasting spree. Only, it isn't a roast? He just makes fun of Anthony’s baby picture and then proceeds to tell Anthony how grateful he is for him, how he's so glad they are friends again and that he loves him? Anthony is crying by this time, which makes the moment even more tender.

Of course, Anthony has to do a counter-roast. It is apparent that he is still affected by all the roasting or 'love-bombing' as Amanda calls it. And he's not as good at live comedy yet. Still, his jokes are funny and really in Anthony's own style. He concludes with Ian's quote of being happy to burn Smosh to the ground with him. I knew that quote would be ingrained in Anthony's mind. It was one of the sweetest things Ian had ever said to him, after all. Until Ian has now told him he loves him, of course.

And then it was 5 am. I got a healthy two hours of sleep in! I came away from this roast with a content smile and a full heart. This was well worth the ticket, the staying up late. I am happy to be a member and support them monthly, I've loved their humor even before they started their youtube channel. I love Smosh. I'm so happy that Anthony is back. Smosh is whole again. And it brings out that light in Ian's eyes. He is funny in an unhinged way again. I truly love Anthony and Ian and their dumb videos. I want them to continue to make them forever. These kinds of live shows are fun. But Ian and Anthony truly shine in their off the walls absurdist sketches.

Special shout-out to my bestie @only-frann who I could scream at this whole day.

[tiredassmage]

bouncing off your cipher quinn au, tyr and quinn for the ship suggestion meme?

First of all, this ask made me date-check how long I've been contemplating Tyr and Quinn kissing to begin with and the fact that it's almost been half a year (almost to the DATE even) is NOT real, time is SO FAKE oh my gooodddd...

Anyway, yeah. Tyr and Quinn kissing in my head is far from new, but I still have yet to do much about it because I can't quite puzzle out how I want it to... work. But its initial origins are in Tyr as Cipher Nine and Quinn still in his role as loyal officer to the Sith Warrior and I think so much of the appeal of these two in my brain is down to their individual, bone-deep dedications to their work. Quinn's whole entire loyalty thing really unravels me for his romance, tbqh.

And what I think gets Tyr so bad for him is his conviction (and, I mean, those incredible blue eyes of his certainly aren't a bad bonus). And also *honks clown nose* I have jokingly told myself this is that ship where Tyr takes one look at Malavai's weird loyalties with the Empire and mutters under his breath "I could fix him."

Tyr can't even fix his own sleep schedule, so like honks clown nose again, but I digress.

Really, this is probably one of those pairings that I can't get out of my system because I think both of them are immensely pretty and I think they should kiss because of it. There doesn't have to be a deeper reason even though stars help them, there certainly could be a lot for them to work through.

Loyalty is the catching point I predict for them. Quinn's dedication is as attractive as it is the one thing that Tyr is almost adamant he can change. Where Quinn sees duty, Tyr sees the trappings that nearly cost him his life and liberty as Cipher Nine, and Tyr has very strong feelings and opinions about how nobody deserves to go through something like that. Ever. Especially in the Empire. Them having a relationship at all relies heavily on Tyr being able to convince Malavai of this and for them to both come to terms about Tyr's less than stellar feelings about the Empire.

Still, Tyr tends to at least respect someone so strong in their convictions, even if he doesn't necessarily agree. I could honestly see this all starting as kind of an accident out of a very passionate discussion about the state of the Empire and then they're making a bit too much eye contact and oh, no, they're a bit up in each other's space and oh. Be a real shame if they kissed. Be a real shame if that was the way they ended this argument.

I have no idea how seriously or jokingly I suggest this.

It could go really standoffish or it could go incredibly, incredibly right. There's some kind of parallel in there to how dedicated Quinn can be to people and how dedicated to ideals Tyr is. Malavai is rather good at structure, so he'd be particularly good at reprimanding Tyr for his work-filled schedule. Tyr seems to have a way of making other workaholics (looking at you, Theron) seem mild in comparison.

Anyway/ultimately/what have you, it might even be good for them that they don't necessarily share the same views on how to handle perceived faults with the Empire. Malavai's loyalty probably errs him to the side of internal reform and that's a good temper for how Tyr's ready to tear the whole thing apart and leave himself standing in the smoking ruins if that's what it takes to finally end this war.

And Malavai's perceptive enough to figure this out and fuss over him, in a way. I kinda toyed around with what this relationship might look like in this wip (no don't look at me I haven't made any progress on it since that post), which also looks at him with both Theron and Tyr. Malavai's no-nonsense attitude is very good at catching his spy bfs in their spy workaholic bullshit, lol.

So, tldr, they could have a very good balance together. Malavai checks his expectations and goals in a realistic fashion that goes far in maintaining the honesty in their relationship to themselves and one another. They are both workaholics though for sure, so they'd... probably be just as likely to spend date night kissing as they are to get distracted talking strategy for an upcoming operation or going over a debrief until their cafs run cold and forgotten on the table kanflsadfs. Tyr's more likely to deploy a kiss as a distraction to coax him off of his work. ;)

[chvnnie]

Hello, I'm here again b/c you said hours are open!

I didn't see a restriction list of what you will or not write, if you're comfortable with writing this, then can this please be a request but if not, then this just can be a hard thought.

But I feel Hyunjin would love dollification, he'd love to put your hair in braids, put make-up on you, dress you up in a corset with those knee-high stockings.

& then proceed to f*ck you so good that your make-up smears everywhere & your corset rips.

'Such a good doll baby, always so wet for me'

my hard thoughts STAY open AND IT'S FOR ASKS LIKE THIS? BABY YOUR BRAIN >>> (also pls feel free to send in any thoughts (soft/hard) you may have - I MAY SUCK AT ANSWERING QUICKLY BUT I DO ANSWER THEM)

SMUT - MINORS DNI

hyunjin absolutely adores dressing you up, and always makes a big show of it. sometimes it's sudden - he comes home from work annoyed and tire, and you just look so pretty sitting on the couch. sometimes he makes sure you block out your schedule. it's going to be an all day thing and there's nothing hyunjin hates more than being interrupted.

today was the latter; 10:00 in the morning, and you're sitting on the bathroom counter in between hyunjin's legs. he leans in, carefully brushing a light pink, sparkly eyeshadow across your eyelids. face so close to yours, you can feel his breath fan across your freshly made face, the smell of mint and hints of his morning coffee enough to make you dizzy already.

he takes his time - why rush this? there's no need. hyunjin wants to relish the time spent fixing you up. you're beautiful regardless, no makeup or little, but there's just something about the heavy makeup he puts on you. it's not necessarily for looks (though it looks stellar), but for the mess.

"look up." he whispers, mascara brush nearing your eye. it's a delicate movement, not wanting to add too much but making sure there's enough to make your lashes thick and long. he also wants to be around your eye. he doesn't want to risk accidentally scraping your waterline or poking your eye, making tears well up and ruin his hard work.

no, the tears need to come later. not now.

when your makeup is done, he helps you off the counter, large hands clasping yours to make sure your feet hit the ground safely. next he does your hair, brushing it out until all the tangles and knots from sleep have disappeared. it becomes soft in his hands, letting his fingers glide through the strands with ease. the braids he does take tine, but you would expect nothing less. once he's done, he pulls some strands out, letting them frame your face, and takes a curling iron to them. the curls bounce beautifully, and hyunjin's mouth fills with salvia when he thinks about how pretty they'll bounce when he's railing you.

then comes his favorite part; the dress up. if there's one thing hyunjin loves, it's spoiling you. the sets he has for you are endless. different colors, different styles, different moods. whatever you (or him) could want, it's very likely it lives in your massive closet.

today he picks his personal favorite. light pink, delicate babydoll with a subtle corset. oh, do you look ravishing in it. he really can't get enough of the sight of you in such a pretty dress. the corset pushes your breast up just enough that they swell, but can still bounce when fucked hard enough. the skirt, however, might be his favorite part. hardly hiding a thing, the curve of your ass peeking you juuuuuuuust enough to see the lace panties he made you wear.

fuck, you look gorgeous like that.

then comes the fun part.

the breaking of his favorite little doll.

hyunjin takes a seat in a leather chair in the corner of the bedroom, having you stand before him. "spin." he commands softly, admiring his work. you really do look divine - like the perfect little doll.

much like the process of dressing you up, he takes his time. first by fucking your face, gathering your braids and pulling your head back just a bit so you're looking at him. he wants the eye contact. he wants to watch your eyes water, mascara smudging just a bit as he slowly pushes his cock down your throat. he likes when you choke around it, whimpers muffled by his length as he holds you there. he'll cum on your lips. just your lips, just enough to smear your lipgloss while leaving the rest of your face untouched (oh, and don't forget to clean it up).

then it's your turn. he throws you over his shoulder, taking you right to the bed. hyunjin slowly peels off the lace panties, obsessed with the way your slick clings to them.

"such a good doll, baby." isolating two fingers, he gently rubs your folds. "always so wet for me."

whenever he's in between your thighs, it's always a sloppy, but composed mess. his nose to chin are covered in your essence, the taste of you sweeter than any sweet he's ever consumed. your moans sound so pretty, and oh, the way you cry out for him when you cum, his name falling from your tongue like a prayer. sure to lap up every last drop, he holds a bit in his mouth before pulling away. hyunjin climbs on top of you, cheeks puffed with the bit of your release he's holding onto. slowly, like everything else, he spits it on your face, watching you cum mixed with his spit ruin your makeup just a bit more. a hand finds your face, and he smears it - all over your face, catching your pretty eyeshadow, your eyeliner, your mascara.

god. what a mess.

and this is where it picks up. this is when hyunjin can't take going slow anymore.

he rams his cock inside you, filling you to the absolute brim immediately. it takes your by surprise - the stretch painful in the most divine way. and hyunjin, sick of taking his time, quickly pulls out before slamming back in. his thrusts are fast, aggressive, low moans leaving his plush lips as he fucks you like the world is ending.

"fuck." he hisses as he grabs your hips, watching the way his cock slides perfectly inside you. "such a tight pussy, doll. am i fucking you that good?"

when you don't verbally answer, hyunjin looks up, and god, if he didn't have any self control, he would cum immediately.

tears streaming down your face, messing up your makeup even more. it's everywhere - your forehead, your cheeks, your cheek. and though your doe eyes have tears in them, you're nodding your head aggressively, making up for your lack of words.

"yeah?" he grunts out, picking up the pace. "i am, am i? you like when i break my toys? when i-"

he's cut short by the sound of fabric ripping. it doesn't take long for him to figure out what happened - a rip down the middle of your corset, breasts spilling from the grip. hyunjin pauses, mind blank at the sight. you whimper from the lack of movement, but he needs a moment. a moment to process what's happened.

and when hyunjin finally does?

well, it's a good thing you cleared your schedule, huh?

I REALLY WENT OFF I'M SO SORRY I DID NOT MEAN FOR IT TO BE THIS LONG???

[symp-honey]

black dress

▷ relationship: dejun x gn!reader

▷ words: 4034

▷ content warnings: nsfw (minors dni), lingerie, oral, cockwarming (briefly), crying (briefly), religious metaphors in relation to sex

▷ summary: after a crappy week, your boyfriend treats you to a gift of lingerie that may just be the salvation you need.

It’s been one of those weeks. The world seems out to get you, and it’s starting to wear you down. You manage to catch food poisoning that tornadoes its way through you for 34 hours straight. Then there’s the missed bus and the irate peers who are getting antsy about your less-than-stellar week. You can’t blame them though, not when the deadline for this big project circles this upcoming Friday in bright red marker on your calendar.

By Wednesday, you cave and send an S.O.S. to your boyfriend, Dejun.

Miraculously, you’ve caught him at a good time. He sends a selfie that borders on being too lewd for what the situation calls for. His tongue is nestled against his bottom lip and his eyes are at half-mast, tank top exposing more skin than it covers as he flexes those coveted arm muscles of his.

Dejun reassures you that you can get through this temporary hiccup, that the end of the tunnel is in sight. He promises to see you Monday night too, which is the soonest he’s available, schedule permitting. He even sends a cute selfie this time around, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, sweat matting down the hair in front of his ears, and wide grin making your breath catch. It takes you a moment to notice the mirrors and their reflections of a practice room past his beautiful face.

It’s a sentiment you already know you’re going to cling onto for the rest of this week. Any way you can eke out some self encouragement.

Spending an entire evening with Dejun is certainly a pleasing reward for what becomes a whirlwind of a week.

The next day, you crack down and put in extra hours to fill out the gaps in your project and polish the details to an acceptable sheen. Dejun sends you stickers intermittently, in between hair and makeup and prerecordings, and the fact that he keeps you top of mind despite his own busyness melts your heart.

The day after, you and your group do a quick runthrough before actually presenting. You hate how last minute it is, but time doesn’t afford you anything more. It could’ve gone better, but the sweet, “Good luck!~ 🥰,” message you come back to brightens your spirit some. You reply with a selfie of you being cheeky, tongue sticking out at Dejun. It clashes with your business casual wear.

Saturday and Sunday are a flurry in their own right. You pick up the parts of your life you put on pause while being sick and working. Groceries and cooking are a top priority, since you’ve grown tired of takeout from overabundance. You also clean and do laundry and manage to sleep some of your underlying exhaustion away. Dejun sends you even more selfies at random pockets of the day, those of him in wardrobe but before hair and makeup, which are usually your favorite kind. His eyes look tired but he comes alive in the sweet smiles and silly expressions he gives you. As a thank you, you send a round of coffees to his waiting room for him and his members and staff.

Even keeping as busy as you have been, Monday evening still can’t come soon enough.

Luckily, the day starts off normal once more. It’s easy to pick your old routine back up now that it’s not stretched thin with additional stress. The only obvious drawback is that there’s nothing to distract you from the wait for tonight, but you’ll gladly take this anticipation over a massive crunch. You’re not that impatient.

The light coming from your phone screen in your periphery catches your attention. There’s enough of a lull in your day to justify checking it. It’s Dejun. He’s apparently already let himself into your place and is waiting for you. You like the message before giving him an ETA. You don’t plan on staying a minute longer than necessary now that you have someone to go home to.

You’re glad that his message gives you just enough motivation to get back to the task at hand. You’re determined to make this last hour and change as painless as possible, and the only way to do so is to put your head down and get to work.

Walking into your apartment a little while later is like the breath of fresh air you’ve been waiting for. You feel truly blessed.

As you strip out of your outwear, you call out, “I’m home, Dejun.”

You get a responding, “In here,” which, oddly enough, sounds like it’s coming from your bedroom instead of your living room like you expected.

It’s a strange enough phenomenon that you hurry into your slippers and make your way over to the threshold of your room. The sight that greets you leaves you stunned.

There, laying demurely in the middle of your sheets, is Dejun in a lingerie dress.

You see mesh and lace and a bodice, and it’s a monumental challenge not to feel absolutely faint from it all.

“Surprised?” A smirk underlies that one word, and you honestly wonder if a person really can turn feral. Dejun might need to take you to a hospital just to be sure.

“Can I touch, my sweet boy?” It’s honestly your only concern at this point, because if you can’t get your hands on Dejun, you’ll most certainly wither away.

“Hm,” the sound is a whisper of husk riding a trill of beauty, and you’re overcome with the need for Dejun to answer faster. “Whatever you like. This is your gift.”

You don’t even process the few steps it takes you to get to the edge of your bed, because you’re too busy drinking in how every inch of Dejun’s outfit drapes his body. As you come closer, it’s easier to tell that the only lace present is in the fabric of his mini-length black boxers. The hemline fits snug around the meat of his thighs, and you can’t help but wonder if he purposefully bought a size too small.

As much as the lace attracts you, your attention is easily pulled to what is clearly the showstopper of this outfit. You’ve never seen a lingerie piece quite like it. There’s a bodice made of thin black straps that outlines his pecs and tits in the exact same way a bra would but with easy access to everything you crave to touch. The waistline is an additional strap that then makes way for a gorgeous, full-length mesh train, the sheerness gathering in pools where it lays against the sheets. Dejun has one hip cocked up just enough to highlight the leg slit that cuts open the skirt from bottom all the way up to a few inches shy of his waist. It’s the only reason why you noticed the boxers to begin with.

Right as you reach the end of your mattress, Dejun stops you with the point of his toes sliding along the hem of your pant leg. He looks up at you from underneath his long lashes and asks that you unbutton your shirt before ravaging him. It’s an easy enough request to do.

You praise the genius of your boyfriend as you crawl over his body and see the trails of your button down cage him in. It makes the initial kiss you press to his lips a little bit sloppy. In other circumstances, you might’ve even been embarrassed by how overrun your emotions are. But in this moment, you’re nothing more than your hunger.

Sealing your lips to Dejun’s does serve to siphon away some of the heat from your lungs, though, which makes it easier to control your nips and sucks. It doesn’t lessen that deeper simmer in you, however, but that’s not what you’re aiming for anyway. You intend to make good on Dejun’s gift tonight.

Time burns away its wick in the space where your lips meet. Everything becomes so simple this way.

The slide of skin is just basic friction, the nerves that tingle from it just neuroscience. Dejun opening his mouth to let you in is nothing beyond his wetness and warmth, the slick of his tongue against yours nothing more than taste and feeling. All the little gasps and mewls you coax out of him is music in its rawest form, not processed or layered, purely human in the emotions they convey. You try not to get lost in it.

Your hand does help to ground you a bit. The one holding you steady above Dejun is indisposed, but the other is free to flutter over whatever it can reach. It’s most curious about the bodice part of Dejun’s dress, fingering under what you now know are soft elastic straps. There’s something sensory about tracing along every edge you can find, the contrast of supple skin and taut fabric titillating. Every so often, you’ll accidentally catch the pad of a finger on the perk of Dejun’s nipple, and that always produces a fun sound for you to devour.

Eventually, your thoughts start spinning together that first image of Dejun you saw tonight. You become so fixated on how small his waist looked where mesh met strap that your hand maps the feel of it, sliding under the high-cut leg slit to cup at the slightness hidden underneath. A passing thought makes you wonder if you’re drooling even more at the feeling.

Once you’re riled up an appropriate amount, you decide what exactly it is you want to do with Dejun. You lower yourself down onto your forearm, giving that hand leeway to grip at the back of Dejun’s nape.

Something in that triggers Dejun to finally run his own fingers up from the band of your pants and across your exposed chest to the divots of your clavicles. You pull back to glean a proper look at your handiwork.

Dejun’s breathing is rhythmic and pronounced, his eyes partially lidded and glazed over. His mouth is what catches your sight the easiest, however, lips swollen in red. His teeth peek out from where his mouth remains ajar too, and they shimmer in the low light of your room.

You grab at the little hairs lining Dejun’s nape and whisper, “I think you deserve a reward for my gift, hm?”

The nod he gives in reply is minimal, daze too heavy behind his eyes for him to truly be receptive to what you’re saying. You'll have to take the helm tonight.

You shimmy yourself a little further down his body and drink in the sight before you once again. It’s only right you worship what’s in front of you, so you get to work on leaving kisses at the altar.

You start at his chest, playful with the patches of skin you have access to. It’s here where you leave mostly licks, loving how your saliva catches the light. His nipples are another shrine for your lips to focus on, mouthing and teething in equal measure. He seems to like that as he helplessly grasps at the hair on the crown of your head and moans low.

Next comes the skirt of his dress, and what better prayer is there than to press kisses through the mesh? You figure out quickly that the weave is open enough to justify wetter kisses, his skin pebbling wherever the fabric darkens most. You make sure to spend extra time around his navel if only to see him start to squirm.

The waistband of his shorts tease you soon enough, though, and you thank heaven for leg slits. You’re methodical in how you leave a string of hickeys along the top hem, always starting with tongue first in order to lave the area clean. It’s followed by quick nips that smarten the nerves for what’s to come. Sucking bruises is arguably the best part, in your humble opinion, solely because of the sounds they pluck from between Dejun’s lips.

In no time at all, Dejun is fully panting in desperation, and it’s your queue to move onward lest he falls too deep too fast.

You don’t stop marking hickeys into his skin, though, trailing them down his thigh and away from his crotch. His leg leans into the opening the dress slit leaves for it, exposing more ground for you to cover. It’s slow going that way, but you remain disciplined in your path downward. The hickeys stop blooming mid-thigh, but they’re replaced with reverent kisses that tickle at the hairs homed there. The knobs of his knee and ankle make good pedestals for the sweetest of kisses you can manage.

After you deem Dejun sufficiently kissed, you finally pull away enough to look back up at him. Tears dot his lash line, threatening to fall along with your sanity. It’s like a spark finds what has become a simmer inside of you and lights it anew, pushing you to take a step closer to your pardoning.

You lift the skirt of Dejun’s dress like a veil and climb underneath, the sheerness doing nothing to hide you away. Using that to your advantage, you stare at Dejun through the material as you slowly lower yourself towards the outline of his hardened cock. Letting out a warm breath is the only warning you give.

Your tongue peeks out of your mouth and smooths over the lace underneath you, the scratchiness feeling a lot like a kitten’s lick. It has the breath stuttering in Dejun’s chest, lungs shaken. Maybe you can afford to have a little more fun for yourself.

The next few minutes are spent in similar fashion. You alternate between licks that dampen the lace and open-mouthed kisses around the girth of Dejun’s dick. None of it seems to be very satisfying, but beads of precum leak from him anyway. You can taste its tang whenever your mouth passes over the tip of his dick.

“Please,” you hear as a whisper from above you. Paying attention to Dejun’s face finds him hazy with lust, eyes the darkest you’ve ever seen them. His hands are roaming the breadth of his own chest, fingers thumbing at his nipples whenever they pass close enough to do so. You can’t possibly suppress your smirk.

You hum in recognition that you’ve heard him but do nothing else to speed things along. That seems to break something in him.

“Please, I need to cum. Haven’t I been good?”

It’s an intoxicating question to say the least. Of course Dejun’s been good. Everything about tonight has been utterly rapturous. You just can’t help but want to hear more of him. His voice is heavenly, and he hasn’t used it nearly enough yet.

You leave a particularly harsh suck to the underside of his cock head before pulling back completely, smiling as that delivers you a ringing yelp. It’s a start.

“So good, sweetie. But if you want to be even better for me, you’ll let me hear that gorgeous voice of yours. I promise to give you what you want after,” you say with a rasp you didn’t intend. Maybe you both have been a bit more quiet than is your norm in bed.

Dejun responds with the prettiest blush and a quick nod of his head. You’re always needlessly charmed by how shyness isn’t anywhere near Dejun’s wheelhouse when it comes to matters of the bedroom, except when it also includes his voice.

He just doesn’t appreciate his music the way you do.

You continue right where you left off, making sure to suck around the girth of his cock more often than you were before. With it comes soft pants and desperate mewls that warm you from the inside out. If Dejun is playing up the porn noises, you can’t tell. He genuinely sounds like he’s coming undone.

“Please, oh my god, please suck my dick.” The end of his plea sounds more like a squeak than actual words, and that spurs you on more than anything else could.

You pull down those pretty, absolutely ruined, boxer shorts until Dejun’s cock is barely free. There’s not much room down here for them to go any further, so you make do. Planting your hands on his hips allows you to swallow him down as far as you can go.

“Ah, ahh, oh my god, yes please,” he whines in thin wisps. It sounds flighty around your ears, and you close your eyes to catch the words better. Unfortunately for Dejun, you don’t plan on moving just yet, wanting to figure out what sounds you can tease from him just like this.

He catches on quick that all you’re doing is cockwarming him, and that entices even better noises, born of frenzied arousal.

“Fuck… please, move please.” You give him one deliberate swallow but remain still otherwise. You can feel Dejun’s legs kick against the mattress underneath you.

“Oh my god, oh-,” his words catch on something, and you’re curious as to what that is. Opening your eyes reveals that he’s started to cry, small streams of tears that cut paths down his cheeks, the furrow of his eyebrows the tops of the mountains they stem from. He’s so pretty that you reward him with an additional swallow.

“Sh- ahh, oh my god, please. Please please let me cum. I can’t- please.”

The movement of his hands draws you away from his face, folding into the sheets beneath him. You’re dizzy with the thought that Dejun probably wants to fist your hair right now but knows better than to do so without permission.

He’s such a good boy for you. Always is. You moan so low that it’s barely audible, but it does its job in ripping out a groan from Dejun too.

From there, you slowly start to bob your head along most of the length of his cock. It’s nothing fancy, but it seems to be a relief for Dejun anyway as he freely gives you his angelic whimpers.

You pick up the pace soon after, employing the suction-on-the-downstroke and lick-on-the-upstroke move that Dejun loves so much.

“Yes, aha, ahhh, oh my god. S’good.” These are the last words you hear from him as he fully devolves into panting and moaning in tandem.

It becomes easy to close your eyes and fall into the rhythm necessary to keep up your ministrations. You’re determined to get Dejun to cum from this alone, too lazy to strategize using different moves for different outcomes, even if it means you’ll have to suck him off for longer.

Surprisingly, it’s only a couple of minutes later, just after the rhythm becomes almost meditative in nature, that you feel Dejun’s dick starting to twitch inside the heat of your mouth. Your eyes jump open to confirm that Dejun is indeed cumming. His keen is high and loud as you dig your nails into his hips in hopes of keeping him steady, cum hitting the back of your mouth.

Instinctively, you swallow often, not even letting the taste settle on your tongue. You’re quick on your feet though, and soon enough, swallowing becomes less about not choking and more about milking every last drop from Dejun. As the spurts of his cum lessen in frequency, you intersperse a few sucks around his head just to be thorough.

Before you realize it, a tremor settles into Dejun’s thighs as they pull up over your shoulders and around your ears. It’s probably oversensitivity talking as Dejun continues whining prettily above you.

With one final swallow, you pull off Dejun’s dick at an excruciatingly slow pace. Since it’s fun to be a little mean sometimes, you also follow the pull with the trail of your tongue. His legs squeeze and you hear breathy gasps that appear more wrecked than sound.

You’re hit with a quiet cough as soon as you pop off of Dejun’s dick, the need to clear your throat too great to hold in.

“Sorry,” Dejun pants out. “Came outta nowhere.”

You kiss his stomach in forgiveness and wrestle yourself out of Dejun’s grip. It’s not as easy a feat as it should be considering Dejun is all shaky and spent. His leg muscles are no joke, and he’s not really cooperating here either.

As you pull away completely, you bring the lace boxers with you; it can’t be pleasant to wear something so wet post-orgasm. You bring them to your hamper and come back to bed with a washcloth for cleanup. Lucky for you, your swallowing skills means there’s not much to wipe away.

It’s no time at all before you’re back in Dejun’s embrace but with his arms tucked around you now. You straighten his dress out for him and pat down his mussed up hair and check him over as he curls into your chest.

It’s an incredibly sweet moment.

Dejun only makes it more so when he uses his sweet voice to ask, “Was that good for you?”

You hum softly and do nothing to hide the smile behind your voice as you reply, “It was the best, my lovely boy. Thank you for doing this for me.

“Bought a garter belt too, but it hasn’t come in yet.” There’s an underlying hint of disappointment there, but all you can really fixate on is the image that is Dejun’s beautiful thighs in a garter belt.

“Next time, hun.” You pause. You’re probably making a lot of assumptions here, but Dejun did like dressing up like this, right? He had to have.

“Dejun,” you hesitate for a few seconds before remembering that communication is important, even if it’s about something as superficial as lingerie. “This was good for you too, right? You seemed to thrive under all the attention, but it wasn’t too much?”

He hides his face in your neck and seems to find courage buried there as he says, “That was amazing.” He takes a few seconds to collect his thoughts before continuing. “I didn’t know if I’d like it. But I did. A lot. You made me feel like I was precious.”

You play with the hairs at the base of his nape and hum simple notes, trying to process his words so as to avoid making an off-handed comment. “You are precious to me. In every way. Not just when you’re dressed up in pretty lingerie or tailored stage outfits. I love seeing you explore this side of you, but I also love you in sweats, when you don’t put on a face.”

He nuzzles closer and presses a gentle kiss to the skin of your throat. If you weren’t so attuned to Dejun and his needs right now, you might’ve missed the tiny, “Thank you,” he whispers there.

You don’t address it further. Dejun can be somewhat skittish about the intimate stuff, and you don’t want to force him any deeper into hiding. All you can do is hope that he understands that it’s ok to be vulnerable sometimes, that not every emotion has to be under lock and key.

You try and emulate that for him, in little ways, every day you spend together, like maybe he’ll learn it through osmosis or something. At the very least, you trust that, in giving him these pieces of yourself, he’ll care for you as much as you could ever want.

It’s a pretty good deal, all in all. One that’s made abundantly clear as you both doze your way into a peaceful evening catnap.

[dumbikawa]

Taking Care of the HQ Boys

GN!Reader | Fluff | Warnings: None

Characters: Suna, Kuroo, Iwaizumi

A/n: I’m such a simp for these boys it’s insane

SUNA

It took Suna a while to get used to the way you never held back when it came to taking care of him. One night, after a particularly rough practice, he’d sluggishly entered the apartment and practically collapsed on top of where you were laying on the couch. Wordlessly, you positioned yourself so that he was resting on your lap with both his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. It was comfortably silent as you ran your fingers through his hair that was still slightly damp from showering at the gym and in no time at all he was softly snoring.

He'd never admit it aloud, but he loved when you took care of him in little ways like that. From the start, he had always insisted on being the big spoon, obsessed with the way your body perfectly molded against his and the satisfaction of knowing you felt safe in his arms. Ever since that night, though, it became a regular thing for you to see him standing, looking at you like a pouty child, from the corner of your eye waiting for you to take the hint that he wanted you to cuddle him. You'd simply open your arms for him to crawl into without even having to look up from your phone.

Today was no exception.

Suna can feel the physical exhaustion down to his bones as he allows the cool water to wash away the sweat and grime he collected over the course of practice. Mentally he feels the same; completely drained in every sense of the word. He can’t even find the energy to thoroughly dry his hair, opting to quickly rub it with a towel before making his way to the bedroom and collapsing on the bed.

“Rin!” you gently scold, placing the book you’d been reading beside you on the bed. “You’re going to ruin your pillow.”

“I don’t care,” he mumbles, eyes remaining shut as he lets out a content sigh. He did care, actually, but his decision was already made and now that he was in bed there was no way he was getting up. He truly meant that, but when he feels you tugging at his hand for him to get up he begrudgingly obliges.

You’re holding your hair dryer and gesturing for him to sit on the floor. It doesn’t seem wise to disobey when you look so determined, so he slides off the bed, giving you full access to his sopping mess of hair.

His eyes flutter closed as the warmth from the hairdryer and the way your fingers are skillfully brushing through his hair begins to pull him towards sleep. Not to mention, in this position he has the perfect opportunity to use your thigh as a pillow and he makes a mental note to have you dry his hair more often. But, sadly, the flow of warm air shuts off and your voice pulls him back to the present.

“C’mon you big baby,” you laugh, watching him groan and throw himself back up on the bed. He shimmies under the covers, but refuses to place his head back on the damp pillow. Instead, he stares at you with sleepy eyes until you’ve positioned yourself so that you can sit comfortably and open your arms for him.

His arms automatically snake around your waist as he buries his head in your side.

“Do I do enough to take care of you?” he asks softly, turning to look up at you with a vulnerability that he doesn't often display so openly.

“Of course, Rin,” you hum, tracing your fingers down his exposed back. He still seems unsure as he pushes his face against your shirt, but his shoulders relax slightly. “I mean it. I like taking care of you, okay? There’s nothing to repay if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Your reassurance falls on deaf ears, though, as you feel his breathing even out and his grip on you loosening.

“I love you, baby,” you whisper, grabbing your book from where you’d set it earlier and relishing in the quiet as you continued to absentmindedly draw designs against Suna's warm skin. 

KUROO

Kuroo closes the apartment door quietly, finally letting his shoulders droop with exhaustion now that he's inside. He slips his bag noiselessly onto the ground and flicks his watch up to check the time. It was well past midnight by the time he actually clocked out of work and, although he wants nothing more than a dual welcome home/goodnight kiss from you, he hopes you’re sound asleep by now.

However, much to his surprise, you’re curled up on the couch with a book and a warm cup of tea, so enthralled in whatever you’re reading that you don't hear him approach. There’s a strong possibility you aren’t even aware of what time it is, completely lost in another world. He tests this theory by walking behind the couch and wrapping his arms around you, chuckling at the way you jump at the sudden contact.

“Welcome home!” you beam once you recover from the small scare. You press a quick kiss to his upturned lips before he walks around to the front so that he can relieve a proper hug.

“Thank you, babe,” he murmurs against your lips, not wanting to pull away from your warmth just yet. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I wanted to wait for you and then I got to this really good part in my book and just...lost track of what time it was.” The way your eyes light up sends a wave of admiration shooting straight through Kuroo’s heart. “How was work? Why did you have to stay so late?”

Kuroo begins walking you through his hectic day, quickly turning the discussion into an irritated rant about having to fix other people’s mistakes and figuring out schedules for upcoming projects. You listen thoughtfully as you migrate towards the kitchen, your boyfriend trailing closely behind.

Soon, there was a cup of hot tea in his hands and the two of you are positioned on the couch with your legs thrown over his lap as he gently massages your calves.

Your eyes never leave his as he talks, nodding along and asking questions every now and then. He didn’t need nor want any sort of advice or words of wisdom. Simply having you listen to him was enough to have him feeling ten times lighter by the time he reached the bottom of his cup.

“Do you want more?” you ask, beginning to stand up. Kuroo doesn’t answer, instead leaning forward and hooking his arm around your waist so that you fall back into his arms.

“More of you, yes,” he says, smiling into your hair. He can practically feel the way your eyes roll as you let out an exasperated groan at his cheesy comment, but the hint of a blush making its way to your cheeks betrays you.

You make the first move to get up, offering a hand out to him. His hand engulfs yours as you pull him towards the bedroom. The bed has new sheets and the laundry is sitting in a basket freshly washed and ready to be folded. A wave of guilt crashes into him, knowing that you also worked today and must’ve come home afterwards and cleaned up.

“Baby, you should’ve gotten some rest,” Kuroo sighs, gesturing to the laundry and neatly made  bed. "I'm certain it was my turn to do the laundry.”

“Yeah, but when you told me you had to work late I figured I’d knock out some chores since I had the time. It’s not like it’s a big deal, Tetsu.” 

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” The words have barely left his lips before he's throwing the covers over the two of you and shutting off the lights. His arms wrap around your middle as he pulls you close to him, relishing in your small giggles. It doesn't take long for you to drift to sleep while Kuroo places soft kisses against your exposed shoulders. He soon follows, matching his breathing with yours and immediately winding down, but until his brain finally shuts off from exhaustion he's thinking of all the ways he's going to show you just how much he appreciates everything you do.

IWAIZUMI

Iwaizumi watches as you begin cooking dinner for the two of you as a quiet pop song plays off your phone. His work day was less than stellar, to put it simply, but watching you dance around the kitchen has already earned the frown from his face and has him smiling like a damn fool.

“Haji!” you exclaim, suddenly noticing the lurking figure from the corner of your eye. He steps out from his hiding place, an amused yet sheepish look on his face as he notices your flustered expression. “Why were you just standing there? Come here and give me a kiss, idiot.” He raises his hands in surrender as he does what you say, letting his lips linger on yours for a moment longer than usual and wrapping his arms around your waist to draw you closer to him.

“Hey, doll,” he murmurs against your skin, resting his face into the crook of your neck. You pull back slightly, ignoring his childlike protests as you do so.

“Are you okay?” you question, eyeing him up and down. Iwaizumi is sure he could get lost in your beautiful eyes that are currently filled with concern. You know him too well, he thinks, as you give him a knowing look. It was still difficult for him to open up about things, especially small things that had bothered him throughout the day. There wasn't a real reason to talk about all the irritating parts of the day because he knows he can handle them himself, or so he claims.

“Y/n, it’s nothing,” he reassures, kissing your nose in an attempt to further prove he’s not bothered. “It was just a very long day, but now I’m back here with you and I couldn’t be happier.” His smooth talking makes it impossible for you to stay mad, but you surely try.

“Alright, well, you know you can talk about it even if it’s ‘nothing.’ In the meantime, stay here and watch the food for a moment while I run you a bath.” Iwaizumi is quick to object, but you’ve already sauntered out of the room and he can hear the faint sound of running water.

It truly did feel nice to be taken care of, he thinks fleetingly as he sinks into the warm water, but it's difficult for him to fully relax when he can hear you bustling around the kitchen. He waits in the bath for a little longer so that you won't bite his head off for how quick he was before changing  into a pair of sweatpants and a comfortable shirt. The sounds of you beginning to set the table echoes down the hallway and he finds himself hoping you'll at least let him help with that.

“You lasted longer in there than I thought," you tease as your boyfriend appears back at your side. "Now go sit down." He opens his mouth to argue, but one look and he finds himself moving towards the table, wondering why you were so intent on doing everything.

“At least let me do the dishes,” he practically pleads, watching you with an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude as you bring the warm food over to the table.

“Or, hear me out, we leave the dishes to deal with tomorrow and spend the rest of the night watching movies cuddled up on the couch." He narrows his eyes as he searches through his brain, trying to remember if he'd forgotten an anniversary or birthday because he surely didn't feel as if he deserved this.

As if reading his mind once again you reach out and hold his hand, gently rubbing your thumb in circles against his skin.

"Can't you just let me take care of you? You're constantly going above and beyond for me, so I just thought I'd try and return the favor." Iwaizumi feels his face heat up as you place a kiss against his knuckles like he always does to you. It did feel nice, but he enjoys taking care of you. He never even thinks twice about it. 

"Alright, alright. In that case, you can do the dishes tonight and maybe also get some desert." He can feel your eyes boring into him as if to say, 'Don't push it.' A smile breaks out on his face as he begins digging into the meal you prepared, peppering you with compliments until his plate is clean.

[joshjacksons]

Joshua Jackson interview with "Mr Porter" (2021)

Minutes before Mr Joshua Jackson joins me in a booth for a Friday afternoon drink at a vibey hotel bar in Santa Monica, he’s confronted by his past. Or rather, a woman in her early twenties who is binge-watching Dawson’s Creek, the teen show about a close-knit group of high-school friends coming of age in a sleepy American town, which made Jackson incredibly famous between 1998 and 2003. The series, which also made household names of Ms Michelle Williams and Ms Katie Holmes, went off air 18 years ago, but is now streaming on Netflix, to the bemusement of Jackson, who played lovable rogue Pacey Witter. “This girl was like, ‘Are you...?’ And I’m like, ‘Yes, I am. He got old. I’m sorry to break it to you,’” he says, before ordering an iced tea and a charcuterie board to tide him over until dinner time. “It always surprises me when young people say they’ve just got into Dawson’s Creek. I’m like, ‘Is it a costume drama to you? Do you feel like you’re watching a historical documentary?’”

The idea of a Friends-style reunion episode or a Sex And The City revival feels equally far-fetched to Canadian-born Jackson, now 43 and wearing it well in a pale green linen shirt and tailored linen trousers by Oliver Spencer that complement his fading brown hair and Cali-tanned skin.

“I don’t know why you’d want to [bring it back],” he says. “Nobody needs to know what those characters are doing in middle age. We left them in a nice place. Nobody needs to see that Pacey’s back hurts. I don’t think we need that update.”

And Jackson doesn’t need Dawson’s Creek. From Mr JJ Abrams’ sci-fi series Fringe (2008-2013) to the Golden Globe award-winning The Affair (2014-2019), from Ms Ava DuVernay’s ground-breaking true-crime drama When They See Us (2019) to the recent Ms Reese Witherspoon and Ms Kerry Washington-produced Little Fires Everywhere (2020), he has commanded the small screen – with a collection of dynamic and diverse work – ever since.

His latest role as Mr Christopher Duntsch, the Texas surgeon convicted of gross malpractice when 33 of his patients were left seriously injured after he operated on them and two of them died, in chilling Peacock crime drama Dr Death, is only stepping his career up another gear.

“I’ve never played anyone irredeemable before,” says Jackson, who is joined in the eight-part series (based on the 2018 Wondery podcast of the same name) by Messrs Christian Slater and Alec Baldwin. “He is charming, gregarious and has a high-level intellect, but he’s also a misogynist, probably a sociopath, certainly a narcissist and a complete incompetent who is incapable of seeing himself.”

If Duntsch is terrifying, then Jackson’s portrayal is even more so. The artist formerly known as Pacey is virtually unrecognisable (thanks to prosthetics) in the opening scene, but the real challenge for Jackson was allowing himself to view someone who is so “spectacularly evil” as a human being in order to walk in his shoes. “It’s a more damning portrayal of the man to make him into a human being, rather than just make him the bad guy,” he says. “He really believes he’s the hero, he’s the genius and that he’s the victim, so once I got past my own judgment, all the other things fell into place.”

Jackson might have his pick of stellar roles – and challenges – now, but it has not happened by accident. Take it from someone who has been in the business since landing his first job aged 14 in Disney’s live-action movie series The Mighty Ducks, opposite Brat Pack alumnus Mr Emilio Estevez.

“You try to make it look like it happens accidentally,” he says, “but there is no way to do this and not be ambitious. I’d say I’m extremely ambitious because I’ve been doing this cutthroat job for nearly 30 years. I’m in the pay-off phase of my career now. One of the benefits of surviving for as long as I have is you get to learn from your own mistakes.”

Such as? “I wouldn’t say, ‘I wish I hadn’t done that,’ because it all becomes bricks in a path, but [after Dawson’s Creek] I was not choosy enough about the things I was doing. You get stuck. You start trying to perform the performance you think people are hoping to see you do. I was so used to working all the time that I just worked all the time. There was definitely a conscious moment in my mid-twenties when I realised I wasn’t really enjoying the work that I was doing. My manager at the time just said, ‘Take a breath. You’re burnt out.’”

The turning point came in 2005, when Jackson was offered a role in the two-hander Mr David Mamet play A Life In The Theatre, opposite Sir Patrick Stewart. “God bless him, Patrick could have made my life miserable because I had no idea what I was doing, ” he says. “I hadn’t been on stage since I was a kid and now I was in the West End in over my head. But it reminded me that I actually enjoyed being an actor, that it’s not about the red carpet or travelling around the world. What I really enjoy is working on good material with good people.”

It’s no surprise Jackson’s time on Dawson’s Creek led to a career crisis. From the ages of 19 to 24, he lived with his fellow cast mates in Wilmington, North Carolina, filming day in, day out, in an arrangement he likens to college. “You get to the end and they’re like, ‘Here’s your degree. Go live now. You’re an adult. Go out into the world,’” he says.

But most graduates don’t have to deal with global fame. “It’s transitory. You’re only ever cool for a moment and then you become much less cool. I was always pretty dubious about flatterers,” he says, recalling a time he was stung in London in the mid-2000s. “I went on a date in Hyde Park with a woman whose name I will not use – she was socialite-famous – and she was acting completely bizarre, looking over her shoulder the whole time. I came to find out that she had hired a photographer to follow us through the park and gave a whole story to the tabloids about how I was going to meet her family.”

It was his growing fortune, rather than fame, that caused Jackson the most anxiety. “Suddenly, at 19 years old, I was making more in a week than most of my friends’ parents would make in a year,” he says. “It was lovely to have the money, but it was that feeling of nobody is worth that kind of money. You feel like a fraud and it took me a long time to forgive myself for not being the thing that I was perceived as.”

Born in Vancouver, but raised in Topanga, California, until he was eight (before moving back to Vancouver following his parents’ divorce), Jackson bought his childhood home in 2001 and lives in it today with his wife, British Queen & Slim actor Ms Jodie Turner-Smith, and their 15-month-old daughter.

“My father unfortunately was not a good father or a husband and exited the scene, but that house in Topanga was where everything felt simple, so it was a very healing thing for me to do,” he says. Fast-forward to 2021 and his baby daughter now sleeps in her father’s childhood bedroom. “There was a mural of a dragon on the wall in that room that I couldn’t believe was still there, years later. The owner [who sold him the house] said, ‘I knew it meant a lot to somebody and that they were going to come back for it some day.’”

Becoming a first-time parent during a pandemic sounds stressful, but it afforded Jackson months at home with his wife and child that his normal work schedule wouldn’t have allowed.

“I now recognise how perverse the way that we have set up our society is,” he says. “There is not a father I know who works a regular job who didn’t go back to the office a week later. It’s robbing that man of the opportunity to bond with his child and spend time with his partner.”

Despite his obvious career ambitions, fatherhood has changed Jackson’s priorities in “every possible way”, he says. “It’s 100 per cent changed how I approach my work and my life. That has been made so clear to me in this past year. For me to feel good about what I’m doing day to day, my family has to be the central focus.

“There are plenty of things left for me to do, but now the thing that gets me excited is experiencing the world through my daughter’s eyes. I can’t wait to take her scuba diving. I can’t wait to take her skiing. I can’t wait to read a great book with her. I’m not worried at all she’ll be a wallflower. She’s been a character from the word go.”

Jackson met Turner-Smith, 34, two days after his 40th birthday. He had been single since his 10-year relationship with German actress Ms Diane Kruger ended in 2016. “I was not looking to fall in love again or meet the mother of my child, but life has other plans for you,” he says.

The couple met at a party. Turner-Smith was wearing the same The Future Is Female Ejaculation T-shirt Ms Tessa Thompson’s character, Detroit, wears in the 2018 film Sorry To Bother You. “That’s what I used to break the ice. I shouted, ‘Detroit!’ across the room. Not the smoothest thing I’ve ever done, but it worked. We were pretty much inseparable from the word go. It was a whirlwind romance and I can tell my daughter I literally saw her mother across a room and thought, ‘I have to be next to this woman.’”

A self-confessed “useless” shopper, Jackson gives his wife full credit for his current wardrobe. He is jewellery-free, apart from a wedding band and a gold signet “JJ” ring on his little finger (a present from his wife), and discovered tailored sweatsuits (by Stampd and Reigning Champ) in the pandemic.

“Jodie has influence in the way that a wonderful wife encourages you, through love, to dress well. She was like, ‘We’re going to throw away all the sweatpants from your past and I’m going to get you some that actually make you look like an adult male and you will still feel comfortable around the house,’ and I’m like, ‘What an amazing idea!’ Who knew you could get sweatsuits that actually look good on your body?”

Jackson’s style has evolved, he says, “from slovenly teen to it’s-nice-when-your-clothes-actually-fit-you”. The penny dropped after he auditioned for his former co-star Estevez, who was directing the 2006 Mr Robert Kennedy biopic Bobby. He said to me, ‘You only got this job because I know you. You came in here to play a very well-put together 1960s political operative and you’re wearing jeans and a hoodie.’

“I had to grow up a little bit. We are very much raised in Canada to never, ever show off, so it took me a while to recognise it’s OK to look good when you go out.”

Still, when you’ve grown up in front of the camera, “every pimple literally documented”, and lived (very successfully) to tell the tale, you can probably be forgiven for the odd fashion faux pas.

“I wore a silk Ascot to an event once in Paris and I still have nightmares about it,” he says. “I looked like Fred from Scooby Doo, but you live and learn.”

[leighistired]

Out Loud

A Martin character study AO3 Link

“G’night mum, love you.”

“Make sure you put the trash out, don’t want it stinking up the house.”

At 12 it occurs to Martin, he can’t recall the last time his mother said “I love you” to him. She must have. He knows she loves him, so why can’t he remember her saying it? Was it before dad left? It can’t have been that long ago. He knows if he brings it up she’ll just tell him off for being silly so he just decides to not say it unless she says it first. She doesn’t say it.

“Look how nice our neighbor’s garden is,” she says instead. “If only we could have such a nice garden.”

“The neighbors hire a man-” Martin tries to explain. He had just done law maintenance over the weekend; he would have to bring up memory issues next time they saw a doctor.

“Aren’t you happy with how I provide for you?” She snaps. “Ever since your lousy father left us I have done my best even with my health and all you can talk about is getting a bloody gardener.”

“Sorry, mum,” he says. It’s better not to argue when she gets like this.

“Forget it. Just get me my tea.”

He goes and brews her a cup of Oolong tea. It’s far too bitter for his tastes but it’s all he buys when he does the shopping. Perhaps that was it, instead of saying she loved him she just provided for him.

Martin tells himself that until she gets too sick to work and begins needling him to get a job at 14. Suddenly he’s providing for her on top of school and everything else but that didn’t mean she didn’t love him. She was just sick and the medication she was on made her tired most of the time so it wasn’t like he could expect her to be excited to see him; especially not when he’s the one bringing it to her.

“Is soup the only thing you buy?” She asks one evening when he brings her dinner.

“You didn’t have soup last night,” he reminds her patiently after a long day of school and work.

“Oh, so you think I’m ungrateful? I am your mother! I gave birth to you! You should be happy to take care of me!”

“It would be nice if you acted like a mum for once!” Martin snaps back. He regrets it as soon as he says it and doesn’t wait to hear her response. He leaves the house and sits in the park near his house for a long time and cries. Of course she loves him. It must be so hard on her to be stuck at home all day with no one to talk to and there he went snapping at her. She’s asleep by the time he comes home and neither of them mentions it in the morning.

Martin doesn’t know what he expects when he starts to transition. He hadn’t even called it a transition at first, he just likes how he looks with short hair, baggy clothes, and a sports bra. His mother disagrees. There are days she won’t even look at him and when she does it’s usually even worse.

“You cut your hair again,” she mentions one morning over breakfast. “Just when you were starting to look like a girl.”

“Yup,” Martin replies tight-lipped. He had been thinking it over for a while and he’s slowly coming to terms with the fact that he isn’t a girl. The way she says it hits him sharply. If she was never going to say “I love you” to a daughter, why would she say it to a son? He doesn’t bother coming out to her properly because he can already see the disgust on her face when he gets a proper binder.

When she decides to move into a full-time care facility, it’s almost a relief. He feels foolish for expecting her to say it when she leaves. He feels even more foolish when he says it in goodbye. The receptionist gives him a sympathetic look when she doesn’t say it back but the receptionist probably assumes his mother has memory issues and forgot who he was. She doesn’t. Still, he appreciates the gesture.

Dating is nearly impossible for most of his life. It’s easiest to blame his busy schedule; he doesn’t even have time for friends outside of school. The fact that no one even asks him out isn’t something he wants to think about. After he drops out of school and his mother leaves, dating and friendship don’t get any easier. He can’t let anyone he works with get close enough or they’ll find out his real age and utter lack of qualifications. Online dating is also out of the question for similar reasons. If one of his coworkers saw him with the age 19 in his profile they would either know he wasn’t actually 25 or they would think he was a creep and he didn’t exactly feel comfortable lying about his age to potential dates. Meeting people organically isn’t the worst thing in the world but it’s difficult. He makes a few passing friends at a local trans support group but even then, he can’t get close to anyone without risking someone discovering his falsified CV.

He doesn’t have his first real boyfriend until he’s 23 years old. They meet at a Holloween party thrown by a mutual acquaintance and date for almost five months before Martin ruins it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dominick, I love you,” Martin says as he serves dinner.

“Oh, uh, it’s a little fast to say that, don’t you think?” Dominick had stammered awkwardly. Was it? It didn’t seem like it to Martin and even if it was, it was true. He loved Dominick.

“I-I don’t think so,” Martin replies nervously. Some distant part of himself starts to berate him for being so needy.

“It kind of is. Let’s just pretend you never said it and we’ll see how we feel in a few more months, ok?”

“You mean we’ll see how you feel,” Martin says a little bitterly.

“Why can’t you just relax and enjoy the holiday?”

Martin had sighed in resignation and picked at the rest of his plate. They broke up a week later because Dominick felt like they were “looking for different things.”

Martin doesn’t have another serious boyfriend after that. He goes on a few more dates over the years but nothing that lasts longer than five months. Nothing that lasts long enough to say “I love you.” In some deep dark part of him, he wonders if he was ever meant for love. His father hadn’t loved him enough to stay, his mother hadn’t said she loved him in over a decade, and he’s not even sure he was in love with Dominick. He gets crushes, sure, but he just throws himself into his work at the Magnus Institute instead.

Working in the library isn’t bad. He gets along with his coworkers well enough but he can never get close to them. Not close enough to love them as friends or be loved in return.

Then he gets transferred to the Archives.

Jonathan Sims is not the first asshole boss Martin has ever had. He doesn’t understand why Mr. Bouchard sent him down to work in the Archive in the first place and his first impression with his new boss is less than stellar when a dog follows him into the building. It doesn’t help that Jon is good-looking and every once in a while Martin catches glimpses of a version of the Archivist without a stick up his ass. Like when he spends Martin’s ice cream birthday talking about emulsifiers. If only he would be clearer about what he actually wants from Martin. No report or follow-up seems to be good enough, even with the help of Tim and Sasha.

Martin works hard for Jon’s approval. He doesn’t know why he wants the recognition but it’s either this or quit and he really, really can’t quit. So he spends three full days looking for every woman named Angela over fifty in Bexley only to be berated for actually talking to one of them and then he offers to look into a case about spiders that clearly upsets Jon only to get trapped in his flat by a zombie worm woman.

When he finally escapes, he takes a few worm corpses with him and he dumps them on Jon’s desk while he’s in the middle of a statement. Let Jon try and disprove that When he gives his own statement he makes special emphasis on reminding Jon how hard he worked to meet his exacting standards. He refuses to be yelled at for this.

Except Jon believes him. More than believes him, in fact. He offers Martin a place to stay. Of course that would be enough to ignite a crush in Martin.

As soon as they get to document storage Martin sits on the cot and begins to cry with exhaustion. He expects Jon to leave but again he surprises him.

“I-it’s alright, Martin,” he says awkwardly as he pats Martin’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe here and I’m certain Elias will respond promptly to my request for extra security.”

“Thanks,” Martin sniffs. He can’t remember the last time he cried in front of another person.

“Would...would you like me to stay until you fall asleep? If- if you think it will help.”

“Oh, er...no...I’ll be fine, thank you. You should be getting home, anyway. It’s Saturday, Jon.”

Martin blacks out as soon as Jon shuts the door to document storage. When he wakes up he finds his crush on Jon stubbornly still in place.

He can’t help himself after that. He starts taking special care of Jon in hopes of encouraging the kind man he saw that night into emerging. At the very least Jon doesn’t yell at him as much and he even thanks Martin for the tea he brings. It’s then that he notices other things about Jon, like how rattled he gets by certain statements and how he’ll often go an entire day without eating or drinking anything unless someone brings him something. That someone being Martin. He also notices how late Jon leaves, if he leaves at all.

It’s on one such night of Jon still being in his office at 11 o’clock that Martin knocks on Jon’s office door.

“Jon?” He calls gently.

“Hzzmt! Martin?” Jon responds, having been startled awake from dozing at his desk. “You should be asleep.”

“And you should be home.”

“I see your point,” Jon sighs. “I’ll finish up here and head home. Unless you need something?”

“Actually….I-I was thinking,” Martin beings. “Since I sort of kicked you off your cot...D’you want to come back to document storage with me? You know, get some sleep?”

“What?”

“Er...forget I-”

“The cot would be rather cramped with both of us,” Jon warns as he gets up from his desk. “If...if you’re sure you want me to join you.”

“Yeah...I thought you had work to do?”

“It can wait until morning, no use keeping you up longer than necessary.”

Martin only half regrets offering to share a bed with his crush. Jon was right, the only way to fit both of them on the cot is for both of them to sleep on their sides (or for Jon to sleep on top of Martin but even the thought has his face burning) and it’s difficult for him to fall asleep with Jon’s back pressed against his. It’s good to hear Jon fall asleep, though, and as time wears on it’s easier for Martin to goad Jon away from work to sleep a few hours.

The more of himself Jon reveals the harder Martin falls for him. Especially after Jon accuses him of being a ghost during the Prentiss attack. Even with the guilt Martin feels every time he looks at Jon mummified in bandages. That was Martin’s fault. If he had just paid more attention then he wouldn’t have lost Jon and Tim in the tunnels. He does everything he can to try and make up for it; despite Jon becoming more and more closed off by the day. Intellectually, Martin knows that Jon has gotten like that with everyone, but something deep down makes Martin feel like it’s his fault Jon’s gotten so cold. It doesn’t help that Jon seems to have gotten friendly with the policewoman investigating the murder of the previous Archivist. Tim even seems to think they’re having an affair which does wonders for Martin’s self-esteem. Jon wouldn’t be the first straight man Martin has ever had a crush on but Martin was pretty sure Jon wasn’t straight. Again, he wonders if he’s done something wrong to push Jon away.

After Jon stumbles out of his office covered in blood claiming to have had an accident with a bread knife Martin finds all the excuse he needs to regularly drag Jon to the canteen to make sure he eats something. The silences during those lunches are hard. They had eaten together before but now Jon wasn’t talking to him. The most Martin could get out of him were a few one-word answers. He tries not to think about how it reminds him of his mum.

“So,” he tries for the millionth time while Jon picks at his sandwich. “Did I tell you what happened while you were at physical therapy the other day?”

Jon doesn’t say anything but he looks up with a gaze that bores into Martin.

“Uh...A little girl came in alone with a statement, she must’ve only been eight years old,” Martin says. Jon looks at him with an expression that almost seems afraid. “Don’t worry, it recorded fine on digital. She walked right down into the Archive, walked up to my desk, and said ‘Excuse me. My name is Beatrice Walker and I’d like to make a statement about a supernatural occurrence.’ She sounded so grown up and she refused to leave until I had recorded her statement. Turns out her dad was using the library for research and she had just wandered off.”

“What was her statement about?” Jon asks to Martin’s surprise.

“Oh, a hamster with mysteriously changing spots.”

“Ah,” Jon replies thoughtfully. “Not much need for follow-up there, I suppose.”

“Not unless you really need me to track down the shop where her parents picked up the new hamster.”

He catches the briefest of smirks from Jon before the conversation dies again.

After that Jon’s coldness and paranoia comes out in the form of a screaming accusation over letters Jon found in the trash. Martin barely manages to make it to the bathroom before he bursts into tears after coming clean about his CV. Tim thankfully doesn’t check on him while he silently curses his taste in men. Jon doesn’t meet his eye for the next week in what he bitterly hopes is guilt. He does seem slightly more willing to talk with Martin at lunch, though.

Then Jon goes missing. After trying to get Martin and Tim to go home early because Jon was feeling under the weather; he disappears. Not before apparently bludgeoning someone with a pipe and isn’t that exactly what he and Tim need to see as soon as they get back from a two-week kidnapping by a spooky door monster?

With Sasha gone, Jon missing, and Melanie King being suddenly hired by Elias, whatever’s left of Martin’s relationship with Tim deteriorates. More so when Martin becomes the only one in the world to believe Jon could be innocent. It’s probably that that makes the police detective “investigating” Jon so actively hostile toward him. Apparently, people say he and Jon are “close” and that probably only means the lunch thing but he wants to imagine it’s something more. Like people are somehow picking up that Jon likes him back.

When Jon comes back to confront Elias it’s all Martin can think to do to fall back on his tea-making. He ducks into Jon’s office with a piping cup of the overly sweet tea he spent months perfecting to Jon’s taste and finds him with his face buried in his one non-bandaged hand.

“Jon?” He calls as gently as he can while he closes the door behind him. “I brought you some tea.”

It’s when Jon looks up that Martin notices the bloody mess down the front of his shirt.

“You’re hurt. Let me go get the first aid-”

“No!” Jon interrupts frantically. “Just...Could you just stay with me for a moment?”

Martin acquiesces and they sit side by side on the sofa in Jon’s office in silence until Jon starts sniffling into his tea. He offers Jon a hug and Jon all but dives into his chest to cry. It’s the saddest most broken thing Martin has ever heard and it’s all he can do not to pull Jon into his lap and curl around him protectively.

“Martin...I-I...I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For everything. For Sasha and Prentiss and...and for the way I treated you. You didn’t….no one deserves that.”

“None of that was your fault and I sort of deserved it. I didn’t actually know what I was doing.”

“You didn’t deserve it,” Jon insists before going back to quietly crying into Martin’s jumper. Martin doesn’t respond. He can’t recall the last time someone’s apologized to him. At least not like that. He’d been told off most of his life for not doing things up to people’s standards. A few people over the years had told him he didn’t deserve it but Jon was the first person to apologize. No wonder Martin was falling in love with him.

Damn it.

Cuddling doesn’t become a regular occurrence for them by any means but Jon begins doing more to seek Martin out after that. They eat lunch together more often and Martin stays up late to talk to Jon while he’s abroad. It drives home how deeply buried into Martin’s heart Jon has become. Especially after he comes back after going missing for a month and has the audacity to joke about being moisturized by a clown mannequin for a month.

He wonders if Jon feels the same way. Sometimes Jon will smile shyly at him, and he can almost believe that Jon would be interested in a relationship if the world wasn’t ending. The last time they speak before the Unknowing they’re in document storage.

“Are you ready?” Jon asks as he shifts nervously.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Martin signs. He heard what happened to Melanie. He knows what’s likely to happen to him. Some small part of him is screaming to just tell Jon his feelings like it’s the climax of an action movie.

“Stay safe,” Jon says.

“Come back,” Martin replies. Jon offers him a hug. It’s no movie kiss but it allows Martin to hold Jon as close as possible. Jon himself is hanging off of Martin’s neck and it feels like a final goodbye.

Then Elias confirms what Martin has always suspected deep down. That his mother never loved him or if there was a time when she did, she stopped when his father left. Even after everything. After he spent years taking care of her. After he had to quit school to care for her. All she ever saw was his father. All his transition did was to remind her further of how much he looked like his father’s son. At least it was worth it. To distract Elias so Melanie could find evidence to arrest him.

Then Peter Lukas shows up and reveals that Elias planned to get arrested. Worse than that, he offers Martin a promotion of sorts.

Then they get the news from Yarmouth. Tim’s body is found in a charred heap, Daisy is missing, and Jon is dead in all but brain activity. At least Basira is physically alive.

Martin spends as much time as he can next to Jon. He’s used to loving someone who can’t love him back. Maybe this is all he’s destined for. Love unrequited. He talks to Jon’s dreaming corpse. Tells him about his day, reads him poetry, even a statement, but nothing draws Jon out of his coma.

Then his mother dies. He barely has the emotional strength to mourn her. Instead, he scatters her ashes and mourns his childhood lost to trying impossibly to earn her love.

After the Flesh attacks, Martin makes a decision. He’ll join Lukas. It’ll probably lead to his death but what did that matter? His mother was gone and didn’t care about him anyway. Tim and Sasha were gone. Jon was basically gone. Basira and Melanie were the only people left that he vaguely cared about and by doing this he could at least protect them.

He visits Jon one last time in the hospital. He’s still covered in wires and his eyes still flit around violently behind his lids as Martin sits down next to him and takes his hand.

“Hey Jon,” he says quietly. “I...This is the last time I’m going to see you...Probably ever. I know, I know old dramatic Martin surely he’s exaggerating. I’m not. The Institute is in danger and...I have a way to keep Melanie and Basira a little safer, so I’m doing it. I just came by one last time to say...Jon, I...I love you. Goodbye.”

He gets up and presses a kiss on a part of Jon’s forehead not covered in wires before leaving. It’s alright that he doesn’t say it back. No one ever says it back to Martin.

When Jon wakes up everything becomes that much harder. Suddenly he had a reason to live and the way Jon pursues him makes him almost believe...No, even completing the thought would be dangerous for all of them. Jon trusts him enough not to be constantly badgering and that makes it worse. When Jon is there the Lonely makes Martin resent his presence and when Jon’s gone Martin resents his absence.

The final, most excruciating pain is when Jon comes after him in the Lonely. He’s excepted his fate in the chilling numbness of the Lonely. Maybe that’s why he says it. The certain, inevitable rejection would be numbed utterly. So he says it.

“I really loved you, you know?”

And Jon looks broken. Even after he rips Peter’s statement from him. Even when he reaches for Martin’s face with hands that seem far too warm and makes him See. Knowing Jon loves him isn’t like “knowing” his mother loves him. Instead of a lie born in Martin’s mind to stamp down the fear of rejection, it’s a reality pouring from Jon’s mind mingled with Jon’s fears of rejection.

Jon’s hands still feel too warm compared to the icy chill of the Lonely as he leads Martin out. Still, he refuses to let go all the way through the tunnels, the Institute, talking to Basira, packing at each other’s flats, and on to the train. The way to Daisy’s safe house feels like a blur and when they finally arrive it’s all Martin can do to remember to take off his binder before collapsing into bed with Jon’s warm arms around him.

He wakes to Jon’s quiet crying. The awful, stifled thing that breaks Martin’s heart.

“Jon,” he whispers.

“Martin? Did I wake you? I’m sorry, I’ll-”

“It’s alright, Jon,” he assures as he swaps their positions so Jon is tucked firmly against him. Jon makes another broken noise and Martin can’t stop himself from crying, too.

“I-I’m here, Martin. You aren’t on your own,” Jon soothes and Martin almost has to laugh. They lay crying and comforting each other until they both fall back asleep.

When they wake up properly they take stock of the safe house’s pantry and make a list of things to pick up in the village after breakfast. Martin gives in to the temptation to buy a new notebook to try and write poetry in. They have enough canned food to survive to the next ice age so they pick up perishable items like milk, bread, butter, and eggs. Jon also picks up fresh peaches and a box of Martin’s preferred tea. It’s easy to pretend like they going on a normal shopping trip as they walk up and down the aisles to check things off their list.

They return to the cabin and settle in. Martin sits on the sofa and tries to write out a poem while Jon tries to read a book from Daisy’s personal collection. After a while, Martin beings to feel Jon’s gaze on him.

“Is there something on my face?” He tries casually as he’s met with an expression he’s never been on the receiving end of.

“I was just thinking about how much I love you,” Jon sighs. Martin can’t stop the noise that comes out of him. All his life trying to earn love and Jon just says it while Martin’s thinking of a synonym for ‘yellow.’

“I-I don’t expect you to reciprocate,” Jon says quickly, his soft expression suddenly turning worried.

“But I do.”

“Oh…Oh!”

“Yeah.”

Jon starts giggling and it’s impossible for Martin not to follow suit until happy tears stream down both of their faces.

[bibliosophist]

Soft as Bread, Sweet as Honey Chapter 1

Beel x Female Reader.

Description: Being the only female human in the Devildom can be tough, especially when you're surrounded by beautiful demons all day long. Your feelings of inadequacy are only heightened around the beautiful brothers, especially Beelzebub, who is as firm as you are soft.

(I've firmly set the characters to be college aged (give or take a few thousand years for the demons), since the idea of writing smut about high school kids squicks me out.) Porn with Plot.

Notes: Hello! This is my first fic in literally years, and my first Obey Me fic ever. Will eventually migrate over to AO3 when I get my new invitation. Let me know what you like because ~*I don't know what I'm doing*~

__________________________________________________________

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | One of the things you miss the most about the human world is the sun. The Devildom exists in perpetual shade, and while the demons don’t seem to mind it (“No UV damage to worry about!” Asmo has reminded you multiple times), you miss the warmth on your skin. Today you’re feeling particularly nostalgic, so you’ve decided to sit in the grass of the RAD gardens for lunch. You have to admit that it is beautiful out here, if not in a way that you’re used to. The way the dusky purple sky just barely illuminates the garden causes shadows to dapple the stonework and dance over the petals of the jewel hued flowers. It also casts just enough light for you to see the other students walking through the open air hallways. They move with ethereal grace, willowy figures accentuated by the clean lines and tapered waists of your school uniforms. You hunch forward over your lunch, poking at your sad looking salad-- mixed lettuce, cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, light dressing-- without enthusiasm. Your body confidence wasn’t stellar in the human world, and now that you’re surrounded by beings that look like they had climbed from an Aubrey Beardsley work, you feel particularly unappealing.

“That’s not all you’re eating, is it?” says a voice from above you, before you feel someone drop down to sit on the grass beside you. You start, pulled from your thoughts as you look over into Beelzebub’s face. Even sitting, he towers over you. His brows are pulled together over his amethyst eyes as he watches you chew on a leaf of lettuce. Apparently, he’s actually waiting for an answer because he pokes you in the arm and repeats himself, leaning over to look at the salad in your bowl.

“Uh, I mean- yeah.” you say, glancing away from him. Then you clue in. “Oh, do you want some?” you ask, spearing a tomato and holding it out to him.

“Are you kidding? That’s not even enough for you,” he says, though he does lean in and take the tomato off your fork. “Oops, sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

“Sure it is,” you say, going for a cucumber wedge, “it’s perfectly fine.”

The furrow between his eyebrows grows. “I don’t know a lot about humans, but I’m pretty sure that’s not true. Come to the cafeteria with me. They’ve got havoc devil tacos today. I’ve already had five, but I could go for a few more.”

You swallow. You can’t help but notice how handsome Beel looks, even in his rumpled uniform. As usual, he’s left the jacket open and hasn’t bothered to button his green shirt up all the way. If he was wearing a tie this morning, he’s discarded it by now.. Though he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, you can see the outline of his firm chest. There’s no way you’re going to eat anything else in front of him-- maybe ever.

“It’s such a nice day,” you say, “I just want to stay here in the garden. Hey, did you start that project on genetic splicing for Professor Xavier?” you ask, desperately trying to switch the subject away from food.

Beel looks up at the sky, the violet color of the atmosphere reflecting off of his eyes, making them look like pools of liquid amethyst. “I guess it’s okay out. Yeah, we’ve started. Satan is my lab partner for this project, so he’s got most things covered. It’s best just to stay out of his way, you know?”

You laugh, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. “I have Sybil. She’s already got our talking points outlined and a study schedule drawn up. I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of you guys this week.”

He nodded, chuckling. “I was her partner for a History project once, I don’t think she even let me sleep.”

You wonder if History class was the only time Beel and Sibyl were ever partners. You can’t help but notice the way she looks at him-- or the way she looks. She’s beautiful and leggy, with hair so soft you’re pretty sure that even Asmo is jealous. You do your best to turn your grimace into a smile. Sibyl is a lovely person. Er, demon. You know your feelings of inadequacy aren’t her fault.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick. It’s probably from all that rabbit food, I really think some tacos would make you feel better.”

“Look, Beel... I appreciate it, but just stop, okay? Stop offering me food.” You pull your legs closer to your body and dip your head, trying your best to occupy as little space as possible in front of the beautiful demon.

“I- okay. I’m sorry.” He pauses, then laughs, “I guess I just forget that not everybody is as hungry as me.”

“It’s not that,” you mumble as you feel your cheeks redden “I’m just... I’m on a diet, okay?” When he doesn’t say anything right away, your gut clenches and you instinctively try to lighten the mood, “I don’t need any more carbs, my thighs look like loaves of bread already!” You force a laugh.

He mumbles something beside you, and you’re worried that you’ve made him uncomfortable now. You doubt that Beel has ever looked less than incredible in his entire life. It’s quiet for a moment while you rack your brain desperately, looking for something else to say. But then, “Does that bother you?” he asks, voice quiet.

“What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

You hear him suck in a breath, and you raise your head to look at him, confused. Now it’s his cheeks that are flushed, his eyes on the ground. “I said, I know, and... and I like them.”

“Oh,” is all you can say. You feel like your stomach is in your chest, and it’s fighting for space with your heart, which you swear has started beating louder. You can’t help but picture Sibyl’s tiny, porcelain smooth thighs, and the perfect gap between them. You pull your skirt down lower, hoping to cover as much of your skin as you can. Even though your uniform is modest, you’ve never felt more exposed. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he’s sitting.

“So,” he clears his throat, still looking at the ground as he tugs out fistfuls of grass, “does- does that bother you?”

“No, of course not. I just think that maybe you’re mistaken.”

Now he’s looking at you. Right at you. Surprise is written all over his face. “You think I’m mistaken about what I like?”

Now that you hear him say it, you realize how ridiculous it sounds. Did you honestly just say that? Yes, you did. And yes, you know it sounds stupid. But you stand by it anyway. “I just don’t see how anybody could, especially you. They’re all soft and dimply, and they touch when I stand up. You’re so...” you gesture at his body, “firm.”

Beel’s face and throat are absolutely scarlet now. You notice that his skin clashes beautifully with his hair, and your heart rate kicks up another notch. “Muscular isn’t the only way to look good,” he says, “I like soft, too.” He turns his body towards you and reaches forward, hand hovering over the hem of your skirt. “Can I... touch you?”

You stammer out something between “yes” and “sure” that comes out sounding like “yer” as he places his hand on your knee, running it up and down your thigh, pushing your skirt up as his warm palm glides over your skin. You’ve never noticed how big his hands are before. He moves his hand up to your knee again before running it back down, this time trailing his fingers all the way down the back of your thigh, brushing over the hem of your underwear. Your skin tingles where it touches his, and you gasp softly. He draws his hand away.

“Sorry. Too much?” he asks, his voice catching.

“No,” you say, unconsciously leaning towards him. You swallow, your throat suddenly very dry. “Not enough.”

He draws in a breath before closing the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is feather light, just a brush of lips, a testing of the waters. One of his hands weaves into your hair, gently cupping the back of your head as the other resumes stroking your leg. You sigh, leaning into him and deepening the kiss, softly sucking one of his lips into your mouth. He groans softly against you, fingers slipping underneath the hem of your panties. You clutch his wrinkled jacket in your hand, pulling him closer just as the alarm on your D.D.D. goes off, signalling the end of your break. 

[starrynite7114]

the way you love me: two

A/N: FINALS ARE DONE! CHRISTMAS IS AROUND THE CORNER! LET US ALL REJOICE! WOOOH! Sorry, got a little too excited there, but, so glad to be done with school for the semester and Christmas is around the corner. Finishing up my holiday shopping right now and I cannot wait! 

Hope you all enjoy this update! I’m glad I stuck to my schedule and updated Miguel’s story and this. I plan on posting Lake part 2 (On the other blog), two EZ requests, roommates and maybe the sex guru Angel!

I also plan on updating my original works Everything is You and Things you Never Knew. I will take advantage of my time off! 

Hope you all enjoy the update! 

Groupchat for updates! Please join since the tags could be a bit iffy at times!

If you would like to be added to the tag list, please let me know!

Masterlist

Word count: 4012

Warnings: None

Shout out to @carlaangel86​ for making this beautiful collage for me! <3

You looked at Mick who was tasked to accompany you while Rio handled some business in Encinitas. You offered to come with Rio, but he insisted you stayed in bed and rested. You didn’t really argue since you enjoyed the luxury of staying in and sleeping. It was rare for you to get that back home, so you definitely enjoyed this vacation.

Though the dinner last night definitely shook you.

Angel couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. Every touch Rio gave you, the further his frown deepened. EZ noticed Angel’s frown and he’s seen you before, you were the picture at Angel’s bedside. But Angel refused to talk about you and he wondered if it was due to the fact that you were Rio’s girl. 

You tried your best to deflect any questions Angel threw your way and there were a lot of those.

“Where did you say you’re from?”

“From California? Where exactly?

“So did you tell my cousin that you were my girlfriend?”

After that question, you placed a hand on Rio’s arm since everything clicked for him then. You didn’t miss the smug smirk on Rio’s face. He always told you that if he ever met your ex-fuck buddy, he would show him what he was missing. That he fucked up by letting you go.

“You know what mama, I’m glad he fucked up, because it led you to me and I would never let you go.” 

Rio refrained from doing anything out of respect for you and his Tio Felipe. Though his true reason for coming had nothing to do with a family reunion, he made up the guise to get you to come with him. His new associates were less than stellar and he had to protect what was his and shut down the business for a few months. He was comfortable and didn’t have to worry about money, he had other means to make money after all, but to keep you safe, he decided to make up some family reunion. Well, it wasn’t made up, he had no plans of showing up, but everything just fell into place. 

Now, he just had to make sure he could convince you to stay in Santo Padre till he could leave. 

He didn’t want to involve you in his business, the less you know the better. But you knew a few things. For example, whatever he did, it wasn’t in the legal spectrum and you respected that he didn’t want to give you more information in a means to protect you.

“Sweets, you ready?” Mick questioned you. He had pulled up to the Romero Brothers Scrapyard, parking right in front of the motorcycle. You two had been seated in the car for the last ten minutes, Mick giving you your time.

“Maybe we should go and wait for Rio?” You turned to Mick and he laughed.

“Sweets, you wanted to spend some time with your father. I’m here to drop you off so I can get Rio, remember?” Mick reminded you.

You sighed. 

“Are you hesitant because your ex is here?” You shot him a look making him chuckle. “Okay, sorry, fuck buddy.”

“No, don’t apologize, it’s not your fault. I know he’s going to corner me.” You could see the thoughts in Angel’s head as he watched you last night. And the text messages he sent you also gave you a hint.

‘We need to talk.’

‘Five years is a long time mi dulce, I haven’t stopped thinking about you.’

‘I don’t give a fuck if you’re engaged to Rio.’

‘You’ve always been mine. You have my heart just like I have yours.’

You never replied, but you could ignore him for so long.

“I can intimidate the little fuck.” You weren’t sure if Angel would be intimidated, especially when he was as annoyed as he was. His annoyance confused you especially since you two were nothing. He made sure of that.

“You’re not intimidating though,” you teased him.

“Sweets, I have no reason to intimidate you.” Mick was the first person you interacted with before Rio came along. He was a sweet guy, scary looking, but he saved you from an asshole at the bar. Ever since then, you got closer to him due to your connection with Rio. He was quiet, but he eventually warmed up to you.

“It’s fine, I have to face the music some time.” You sighed. “Ice cream night?” Whenever Rio went on trips, he left Mick with you to keep you protected. You didn’t try to question Rio much, not due to obedience, but you trusted him and whenever he thought it was time to give you something, he did. So, whenever Mick was with you, you two had ice cream nights and also some UFC nights where he taught you self defense. He was abrasive at first, but you told him it was for safety purposes. 

“Whatever you want sweets, just don’t cause trouble.” Mick teased. “As much as I like pulling you off people, Rio is never happy when you get a scratch on you.”

You looked up and found the Mayan men coming out of the clubhouse. You gave Mick a quick squeeze on his hand. He got out of the car and opened the door for you. He walked over to where Bishop and Taza were awaiting your arrival.

“Preciosa,” Bishop greeted you, kissing your cheek. “Mick.” He greeted Mick with a firm handshake.

“Just dropping her off, Rio is in Encinitas, we should be back in a few hours. I’ll see you later sweets.” He gave you a quick hug and looked around the Mayans and he figured the tallest of them all was your ex. The way he watched you gave it away. 

You watched as Mick left the scrapyard. Bishop wrapped his arm around your shoulders and led you towards the clubhouse. You made eye contact with Angel and it bothered you that the butterflies were still there. He smirked, throwing his cigarette butt on the ground. 

He had you where he wanted you.

Rio was nothing but a fling, he would win you back. 

The whole time you were with the Mayans, you stuck by Bishop knowing Angel wouldn’t dare to come near you when your father was here. EZ ended up dropping you off to your AirBNB since Rio had to stay in San Diego for the night due to some business. Bishop offered for you to stay at his place, but you’ve been thinking about that bathtub at your AirBnB, so you chose to go home.

When you got there, you almost screamed for EZ.

Angel was sitting down on your couch. He was watching television like he owned the damn place.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You knew for certain that his AirBnB had a damn camera, how did no one give you notification.

“Friend of the club owns the place, your pops got a spare key so I took it.” Angel shrugged, like he didn’t just break a fucking entry. Well, he technically didn’t but you didn’t want him anywhere near you.

“Your cousin is coming back soon.”

Angel shrugged again. “He can be here for the conversation, I don’t give a fuck.” And he truly didn’t. For five years, Angel waited for you to return, pride getting in the way of him coming after you. He truly believed that you would come back, he was going to give you a year. After a year, he was going to come after you and he would stop running from his fear of the dangers the club presented. He would face them head on.

He felt naive and stupid. 

You were the daughter of the club’s president. Whatever he added to the table wouldn’t put you in any more danger than you already were.

But Angel was also frightened by the feelings he had for you. He’s had his fair share of women, but no one compares to you.

He first realized he loved you the day after he met you. He was prospecting for the club and he was cleaning up the bar. You had come in, hand full of books after finishing class for the day. You looked over at Angel and smiled, giving him a small wave before focusing your hold on your books again.

That’s all it took.

A fucking smile and Angel was hook.

He vowed that he would always keep that smile on your face. That he would always keep you happy.

He ended up being the biggest reason for your heartache and departure. For that he could never forgive himself, going on drunken binges in an attempt to hurt himself. He did it to feel something, to feel that there was still something inside of him. It was brief, but he felt something, as long as it wasn’t the ache of his heart that was always calling for you. 

It was stupid.

He should know better.

But he should have known better so he didn’t have to lose you.

And now you’re back, with mother fucking Christopher, his cousin who wasn’t shit when they were younger, he still wasn’t shit now. He wasn’t sure why he decided to move to the East Coast, but he never questioned it. They weren’t close, and they sure as fuck wouldn’t be close now. He was cool with Ezekiel, but that was the least of Angel’s concern. 

“You should, he’s my fiancé Angel.” You wanted Angel to leave. The last thing you wanted was for them to argue. You also didn’t want to be alone with Angel, whatever happened, it happened. It didn’t mean anything to him and on a good day, you could convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything to you. 

“Again, let me reiterate that the fucks I give is nonexistent.” Angel turned the television off. 

“What do you want Angel? We have nothing to speak about.” You remained by the door, not wanting to step closer to him.

Angel noticed that you chose to stay by the door and you looked tense. 

“You scared of me? You think I would hurt you?” He looked wounded that you kept a distance, but he knew why.

“No, I just don’t see the point of being comfortable when there’s nothing for us to speak of.” You stood your ground. Whatever you and Angel had been buried four years ago. 

What’s done is done.

“I missed you.”

“How nice.” You placed your purse on the bench by the door, making your way over to the kitchen. You needed a drink or four drinks, you’d see where the night went. You did hope that Rio would decide to come home instead of staying in San Diego.

“That’s all you’re gonna say? I know you missed me too mi dulce.” Angel followed you into the kitchen. The counter kept the distance between you two, but you knew Angel would crowd your space soon enough.

“If that makes you feel better at night, absolutely.” You took out the peach whiskey in the refrigerator along with your favorite pineapple mango juice. 

You poured yourself a drink and stayed beside the kitchen island to keep as much distance between you two as possible. You placed a straw in your cup. 

“It’s a bit rude that you didn’t offer me a drink.”

“Well you’re not welcome so I would much appreciate it that you would leave.”

“You tell your fiance about us?”

“For what? There was no us.”

Angel chuckled at that, but he wasn’t amused. “Now there’s no us?” 

“You made it very clear there was no us, so no, there was no us.” You smirked, lifting up your cup at Angel. 

“How long have you two been together?”

“Why does that matter to you?”

“I can always just show Rio our pictures together, I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate having my seconds.” Angel didn’t mean to sound like an asshole, but since you were hurting his feelings, he wanted to hurt yours. This indifference you were showing, brushing off your relationship, it pissed him off. 

“Again, can’t have your seconds when we were never together.” You finished your drink rather quickly, a sign of your nervousness. “Angel, there’s no point of us talking. We’re gonna be family soon, I think it’s best we just bury whatever memories we had and start anew.” This was for the best, you didn’t need anymore surprise visits, jabs about the past or anything. You two have moved on, you sure have and you were certain Angel has as well. 

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“There was nothing to come back to.”

That stung, Angel had to admit that. When you left, he didn’t think anything of it. He thought your claims were unfounded since he did let everyone know you were his girlfriend. But the other guys pointed out to him that once you were both outside the confines of the clubhouse or his apartment, he acted differently. He denied it before, but then he noticed it too. One specific incident was burned in his mind.

You were leaving a restaurant with a friend and ran into Angel and Coco who were leaving the bar next to the restaurant. You felt a blow to your stomach when you saw Angel’s arm wrapped around the girl’s shoulders. When you two made eye contact, he simply nodded his head and walked away with the woman in his arms. He came to your apartment that night and you pretended to not be home. For some reason, you never gave Angel a key to your apartment and it was the right choice, he just disappointed you. 

Angel’s face softened remembering those memories. He wasn’t proud of what he did, but it was all to protect you. He fucked up and he had some dumbass wannabe gangster on his tail, so he pretended he didn’t know you. The dumbass couldn’t penetrate the clubhouse, but outside the clubhouse walls, he didn’t have control. You were the last thing he would jeapordize. 

“I’m sorry. I never meant to make you feel that I was ashamed of you or I didn’t love you because I did, I still do.” Angel stepped closer to you. Standing your ground, you leaned against the counter, taking a sip of your drink.

“Thank you for apologizing Angel. What’s done is done. We both have moved on.” Your smile was genuine as you were happy with Rio. Regardless of his shady business, Rio never made you feel like your presence was a nuisance for him since he had to protect you. Rio never let his business interfere with your relationship. If there was a possible threat, he handled it.

He always told you.

“I chose you, you chose me. I wouldn’t break your trust and I would do everything I can to protect you.” 

You never understood Angel’s reasoning, protecting you. You were the daughter of the club president. What possible danger did he present to you that wasn’t presented to you as Bishop’s daughter.

“I haven’t and I know for a fact you haven’t either.” Angel moved a little closer, he was now in front of you.

You laughed, shaking your head at the audacity Angel had. You’ve moved on and were happy. You realized that you didn’t need Angel. That whatever you two shared was a part of your journey to teach you your self worth. That you didn’t deserve to be the girl a man would hide. In some ways you understood it was protection to some degree but you were Bishop’s daughter. Whatever threat he foresaw was not something you haven’t faced before.

“Listen, whatever lets you sleep at night, but at the end of the day, there was never an us. I’ve moved on and if you’re here because of guilt, I forgive you Angel.” You needed him to leave. Your feelings for Angel would always be here, he was your first love.

“Bullshit. I don’t know why you’re trying to feed yourself these lies, but you and I both know it’s always been us. I don’t give a fuck if Christopher is your fiancé. Your back home now. It’s only a matter of time till you come back where you truly belong.”

“Santo Padre is no longer my home.”

“I’m not talking about Santo Padre.” Angel was now right in front of you and you were back into the counter. 

“Oh yeah? Where do I belong Angel?”

“With me. We all make mistakes. I fucked up by thinking people wouldn’t connect you to me and it would keep you safe.” Angel tucked a strand of your hair that was loose, cupping your face with his hand. “I failed to register that your Prez’s daughter, danger was always present. I should have made it know you were my girl so that if they ever tried to fuck with you, they would know that I wouldn’t hesitate to kill them.”

You got lost in his warm brown eyes, the same ones you used to look into at the throes of passion. The same one you looked at whenever you felt unsure of the world. The same one you looked at as another woman sat on his lap.

“Sweets,” Mick’s voice broke you and Angel away from one another. Looking over at Mick, you were relieved to not see Rio, but you knew it would get back to Rio. Mick saw how lost you looked, Angel staring down at you, caressing your cheek, it wouldn’t be an ideal sight to see for his boss. “Mr. Reyes, I suggest you leave.”

You could tell that Angel was going to pick a fight with Mick, especially the way he stood straight, fist closed on either side of his body. The stoic look on Angel’s face always gave it away because that obnoxious know it all smirk would appear next.

“Please go.”

He turned to you and chuckled. “We’re not finished.”

“That’s a matter of opinion primo.” You looked over and found Rio, his hands buried inside his jacket pockets. He gave you a small smile which you returned. Walking over to him, he kissed you and placed another kiss near your ear. “Go to our room.”

“Please don’t hurt him.”

“I promise.”

You left them to their own devices, not sparing Angel another look.

“It seems we have things to discuss Angel.” Rio couldn’t believe Angel was your ex-boyfriend or whatever the fuck he was to you. In some ways he wasn’t shocked, but he had hoped it wasn’t his family member. The way Angel watched you during your meet-up, he knew that Angel still held the torch for you and it was burning brightly.

But you were his fiancé.

He mended your broken heart. 

He caught you when you fell.

Angel didn’t treat you right and there was no coming back from that.

There’s nothing to discuss, not for Angel. He wanted you back and if he had to go against Christopher’s wannabe gangster ass he would. He looked up Rio, well mostly spoke to his father. Christopher wasn’t as clean as he thought him to be. The story went that Rio went to MIT and was too good for his family. But money laundering and counterfeiting hardly spelled out MIT graduate. Riz found a few things about him for Bishop.

How could Bishop put you in harm’s way like that? The FBI dug deep when it came to criminals like Rio.

“About?”

“Don’t play stupid Angel, even though you would like to make people believe you’re an idiot, you’re not.” Rio was close to EZ and kept in touch with his younger cousin. He always admired EZ’s intelligence and baseball skills. Angel was a typical jock, football all star with nothing to show for because he didn’t see the importance of education. Or that’s what he wanted people to believe. Angel was smart, Rio saw it first hand when he helped Ezekiel out with some calculus problem that stomped even Rio. 

He wasn’t certain why his cousin decided to play the part, but that’s neither here or there.

“You’re going to stay away from my fiancé.” It wasn’t a request or a demand. It was an order. And in Rio’s calm and collected voice, the hair at the back of Angel’s neck rose.

“Afraid of a little competition?”

“Competition would insinuate you have a chance but you don’t.”

“She’s always been my girl, Rio. I don’t give a fuck that it’s been five years, she won’t stay with you.” Angel fucked up, he knew that and he would show you that he was worth it. That he was worth coming back to. “What you’re doing with your business, does she know?”

“She knows enough.” Rio stepped closer to his cousin, trying to keep his temper at bay so he didn’t beat the fuck out of Angel in the home you two were currently sharing.

“I’m sure she told you about us.”

“You’re so confident that you matter.”

“Because I do and you even know it. I’m sure she did, she wouldn’t jump in with you not knowing what’s going on. I did everything to protect her. I know she doesn’t see it that way, but I did.” Angel didn’t owe Rio an explanation, but he knew his cousin. Rio was an only child. He did everything on his own and did his best to get the fuck out of Santo Padre. He was resourceful and had an intimidating calm manner. 

They always said it was the quiet ones and he got that picture.

“You’re willing to risk her? If the FBI is looking into you as they are now, you think she’s gonna be safe?”

Rio chuckled, shaking his head at Angel’s words.

“Yeah, my life is dangerous, but I’m confident I could protect her. I don’t need to hide her like some insecure idiot.” Rio stepped closer to his cousin, smirking. “Guess you weren’t. Stay away from my fiancé, you wouldn’t like to know what I can do.” He tapped Angel’s face and when Angel made a move, Mick took out his gun. “Go run along Angel, my patience is nonexistent when it comes to her.”

Angel watched as Rio made his way towards the room you two shared. 

“I suggest you leave.”

Angel held his hands up and walked out the front door. Rio had him fucked up. He wasn’t giving up on you. A ring on your finger meant nothing till you two were officially married and he was going to make sure you didn’t get there.

Rio entered your room and you were already settled under the covers.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was here.” You sighed. “If I knew he was your cousin, I wouldn’t have come.” 

Rio took off his jacket, and his shoes, crawling over to you. Before replying to you, he kisses you, your body immediately responding to him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, losing yourself in Rio as you always did. He pulled away, resting his forehead against yours.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, with all my heart.”

“Angel doesn’t matter. You matter to me. You’re marrying me. Whatever he does, it won’t matter cause I have you.”

Your heart swelled hearing Rio’s words. Rio was confident that you love him, you’ve never made him feel otherwise. 

“I thought you weren’t coming home?”

“I wasn’t, but I convinced Mick to drive us back.” Rio smirked and kissed you again. “Let me change and I’ll get us some ice cream, you pick the movie.”

Even though you were certain Rio did some shady shit, it always amazed you how he could be so normal. But then again, so was your father. As you browsed Netflix, Angel’s words came back in your mind.

You weren’t sure why he was fighting for you now. What’s done is done.

Angel was a part of your past that you wanted to keep there. It was just unfortunate that circumstances would have you two brought together once again.

=================

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[senju-sekhmet]

The Leash (Part 9)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death, angst with a happy ending ~6000 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Previous: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6; Part 7; Part 8 Read on AO3!   Disclaimer below the cut! more updates. is it really a disclaimer still, i wonder lmao

DISCLAIMER! we are nearing the grand finale of this fic!! please stick until the very end okay?! i know this chapter might be a little bit of a drag - it’ll get better, promise. <3 Other than that: enjoy my very self indulgent work, filled with my own headcanons and angst galore. Let me know what you think and thank you so much for reading!!!! ________ Leaving you had been a real test of will. Not only were you in such a deplorable state overall, but also your request - it was quite obvious you were putting on a brave face, but the truth of the matter was you weren’t faring well, at all. It was the little signs that gave you away - the slight tremor in your voice sometimes. The gallows humour. He didn’t want to think about what the withdrawal had been like for you. But he could well imagine. And as per usual, he was helpless except to unravel how to produce more of this damned leash. He couldn’t even heal you or alleviate some of your exhaustion at this point. 

By the time he had reached the laboratory he was frustrated beyond measure, sick from guilt and his heart was aching that if he didn’t know better, he might as well think he was sick. He wasn’t, of course. But eliciting such bodily responses due to his emotional state was something entirely foreign to Tobirama. He was - always had been - subject to his moods, sure. And the people around him would know his sour moods, especially. But would he carelessly act on them, or physically feel them like this? No. Luckily it was the middle of the night and there had been nobody around to witness the somber scowl he was wearing. Not that he cared, anyway.

In the grand scheme of things, that was the least of his concerns.

He had contemplated testing his newest result on another prisoner, but ultimately decided against it. The best he could hope for was a prolonged time of muting the victim’s chakra. What he really needed to start working on now was to weave the second component in, the disruption. And since he had four vials available, that offered a variety of options. He’d leave one untouched, to be safe - and work on one for now to start with that.

The first problem was to imagine how he’d want the disruption to kick in. He knew from examining your blood and also the reaction you’ve shown that it took some time for the disruption to kick in. He had deduced it must be because of the chakra muting component - it covered the disruption up to leave a timeframe in which a victim was not threatened by it. When it faded, only the disruption remained, the lethal withdrawal kicked in. Therefore, the chakra needed for this would need to last longer, adhere to the victim almost like a brand and be intense enough to cause these effects. He did have a vague idea how to achieve this - but to compress it into such a small vial was… daunting.

What’s new, he somberly figured to himself.

And just as he imagined, this proved to be even more complicated than weaving the first component in. Not only did he have to treat delicately, but also be extremely careful to not destroy the structures he had worked so hard to get into that vial in the first place. He didn’t quite succeed in that - partly, the muting component took damage. The whole process felt as though he needed to weave chakra inbetween what was already in the vial - as if he was transplanting it onto the already delicate structure he had created. It was endlessly frustrating. Frankly everything about this was so demanding, at times he wondered if there really was no other option to get a cure.

Like torturing the prisoners to a maximum.

The more time he spent threading the more he became convinced there must be some trick to it. That, or it required an intense amount of training. If it was the latter, then he’d be facing a new problem. 

He’d deal with that when it came to it. His plate was full as it was. 

Once he got a hang of how to weave it in without wrecking the delicate structure of the first pattern, his gaze swept to the clock. It was long past midnight. Time for a small break. As much as he hated it, he didn’t want to use his clones yet again - he needed to figure this out more, firstly. If he had no real idea where to truly go with this, his clones’ works would just ramp up more exhaustion. More he needed to sleep off. Besides, this would not be so much of a break - though you were stable, he simply didn’t like the thought of leaving you alone. Not after your request - not after seeing you in your frightfully weak state. He had to check on you, as he promised.

He teleported back into your dimly lit room. Briefly, he gazed out of the window - the sky was clear, the moon shone bright and there were a million stars alongside it. It was beautiful. Silently, he walked to your bedside again to find you had your eyes closed. Finally - finally your face seemed peaceful. Gaunt, for sure, but not in pain. Tobirama settled down into his chair and laid his hand on yours, as lightly as he could to not wake you up. Very slowly he let his chakra skim over your network to find it dormant as well, pleased you still were asleep. Equally slow, he increased the connection to examine you as softly as possible. As usual, the injuries, microscopic tears, tissue damages and healing bits were too numerous to count. And there also was the general lack of reserves overall - a result from the strain put on you by the stretching of the interval no doubt. Even so, your cardiovascular situation was superior and no organ showed any sign of dysfunction. A pleasant surprise - compared to before, you were doing even better. Seems that aside from the exhaustion you had recovered well from their first stunt. He withdrew quickly before you could notice his presence and leaned back in his chair.

Had they gone by their normal schedule, you’d be left with four and a half days now. And Tobirama hadn’t even yet produced something that was anywhere near the leash. For all the grief it had put you through, it was a small victory. Admitting this felt wrong, though - despicable. It was the method. And he wasn’t sure how much time they’d gain from this, overall. His medical expertise wasn’t comparable to his brother’s, but he didn’t think you’d keep up lengthier intervals. Maybe if you’d been in peak physical condition.

He groaned slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.

Part of him didn't want to think anymore, now. He felt stretched out, thin. Spent. But of course, his mind wouldn't stop.

He vividly remembered the first time you went into withdrawal. The torment you had been going through. Just because you hadn’t been writhing or screaming now didn’t mean it was more bearable - no. You had been sedated this time. Tobirama was quite sure the whole procedure was hell for you, nonetheless, and all that kept you together was your unbreakable will to live.

If that ever faltered…

An ice-cold shiver ran down his spine. He closed his eyes. Already his heart pumped painfully against his ribcage, he had expected it. The all too familiar ache, the grief. The guilt.

I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you.

It was all he could do. Though he caustically surmised, so far he had done a less than stellar job.

He returned to the lab as soon as his concentration felt up to the maddening task yet again. Having seen you again quite possibly helped a great deal to spur him on again despite the hour and how daunting it all felt - he just  had  to produce some kind of breakthrough now. He knew it. He could feel it. This is the way. He didn’t allow himself another break from the delicate weaving process until finally he inspected a vial containing both components now. Using his sensory skills he sent a weak, short-range chakra pulse through it.

The substance was not like the leash, no. If the leash was shining like a beacon, his copy was a torch, at least. It was progress, compared to the last time. He silently wondered if adding the second component had done this. Then came the next test - examining it directly. Again, the result was that his vial seemed inferior: while the chakra swirled in it in a quite complicated pattern, finely woven, he did distinguish the two different components after a little bit. The liquid made it difficult as it stayed ever in motion, but it was as though he was seeing two different colors.

It was a step forward, at least. He’d be testing this soon. Based on that - and the test subject’s blood work - he’d draw new conclusions. Still, there was more time to work on this vial further. The weaving itself was becoming something of a craft - with each moment he’d learn new tricks to it. A taxing one that seemed entirely focused on details, tiniest nudges and using small amounts of chakra at a time, but a craft nonetheless.

Had he not been so pressed for time, he might’ve actually found it interesting. But right now, all he felt was your torment breathing down his neck, wrenching his heart around and stealing his breath.

He wanted this over with.

It was early morning when he finished his work - not that he’d call it that, but he decided there was more merit to testing it out now. Even so, he’d check up on you again first. The world lurched with the use of his hiraishin seal, and a moment later he was in your room.

The first rays of dawn filtered in already, drenching the wooden hospital furniture in red hues once more. Low rustles were coming from your bed. Tobirama stepped over swiftly to find you stirring under the sheet irregularly, your head tilting from side to side. Briefly, he wondered if you were having a nightmare - but your eyes were open.

And recognizing him. “Tobirama,” you breathed, surprised.

“What’s wrong, Y/n?”, he inquired, wasting no time to step closer even, the worry already growing. 

“Just … trying to get more comfortable,” you whispered, attempting a weak smile. “Looks like my strength returned a little bit more.”

He frowned slightly. “Don’t force it.” He couldn’t have prevented the sternness from seeping into his voice if he wanted to.

You sighed. “No,” a light shake of your head, “Just help me get on my side. Please?”, you extended your left hand for him to take, which he did with a small sigh. At least that way you wouldn’t try to do it yourself. And while he was extremely  adamant, as Hashirama had eloquently put it, about your rest, it still tormented him to see you lacked the strength to turn on your side by yourself. Of course he knew it was common for patients in your condition - but this was you. He placed his right hand around where your hip and the small of your back would be under the blanket after his left had grasped your hand and pulled you towards him very slowly and gently so you tilted onto your side. You groaned a little, but sighed once you had adjusted to your new position.

“Thank you,” you hushed, meekly almost. The lack of strength was just as obvious to you. Tobirama took his seat at your side again and shook his head dismissively.

“Of course.” He still frowned, though. “How are you feeling?”

You closed your eyes and sighed again. “It’s… starting again. I can feel it. I’m feeling dizzy and… weaker.” Your voice shook from a slight tremble. Fear, Tobirama concluded.

He clenched his teeth and breathed through the tight feeling in his chest. “Y/n, we don’t need to stretch the interval as much-,”

“No,” you interjected firmly, eyes snapping open, giving him a sharp look. “We do. You know it. I know it.”

Now was Tobirama’s turn to close his eyes. “I don’t want you to suffer,” he whispered, his baritone voice near breaking again just from uttering these words and yet firm all the same. The tight feeling became worse

“I know,” you replied, haunted. “I know.” Your gaze was sorrowful. Knowing. Tobirama leaned forward to grasp your hand again and enclose it in his, letting his chakra coat your networks in the familiar, warm way. He didn’t know what else to do for your comfort. “Thank you,” you muttered again, forming yet another weak smile.

His head hung low as he simply basked in feeling you like this. The small nudge you were giving his sensitive network made him gasp slightly. 

The moment was interrupted by the door swinging open. Tobirama’s head shot up to find his brother standing in the doorway. Looking more rested than he himself did, most likely. When he had reapplied his face paint after washing himself, there definitely had been dark rings under his eyes.

“Good morning,” Hashirama announced warmly, rounding the bed to stand beside Tobirama when he realised you were on your right side. “How are you?”

As you explained your condition to him, Tobirama gently grazed over your chakra network once more before drawing back slowly to free your hand. He’d be on his way soon, anyway.

Hashirama nodded. “Very well. I singled out a few medications that should help us stabilize you, as I mentioned. It’d be best to take them while you’re still, ah, responsive.”

“You mean when I’m not spitting it back at you?”, you deadpanned. Tobirama near froze at the image. All he could think of was how his hand had forced your mouth open, then poured the torture drug in and forcefully constricted your airway to make you swallow it.

Hashirama cleared his throat. “Well, you haven’t managed that so far.” Tobirama snorted in quite a cynical way then, earning him an arched eyebrow from you. Hashirama shot each of you a meaningful glance before continuing slowly. “Still..., it might be necessary to draw additional seals to release the medications transdermally.”

Tobirama’s head whipped to the side to stare at his brother. “That will aggravate the overload.”

Hashirama held up his hands defensively already. “The seals I have in mind for this purpose only add very, very little of the user’s chakra to the patient.” Tobirama wasn’t quite convinced yet as his scowl indicated. But then forcing things down your throat wasn’t gentle, either. 

“And we’re also going to modify your nutrition, accommodating for the duress you find yourself in,” he added softly, but no less serious.

That made you snort now, but in a disgusted way. “Oh, I know what that’s going to taste like.” Every shinobi in the field on long missions knew that, in fact.

Tobirama wasn’t having any of it though. Already, he became riled up. “Y/n, we're not going to discuss-”

“I know, I know,” you already deflected exasperatedly, waving your free hand to calm him down. He leaned back in his chair then and crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

“Alright. Now that that’s out of the way,” Hashirama sighed, stepping closer to you. “May I?”, he extended his hand to take yours.

That was Tobirama’s clue. He wasn’t of any use here right now. He leaned closer to you yet again, expression mellowing. “I’ll be back soon, Y/n,” he promised for the lack of a better phrase. Anything else - anything mundane like ‘take care’ - just seemed wrong at this point. You nodded, trying another brave smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Tobirama hoped his did.

He left the hospital to head straight for the interrogation and information headquarters, then, after having picked up his latest experiment with him.

It was already bustling with activity despite the early hour. Perhaps another mission finished. He didn’t dwell on it, really. Instead he headed to where he knew to find Ikuro; nodding towards the few familiar faces he made out. Apparently news about his task had made the round since nobody stopped him on his was through the small corridors past various offices. For a group that was euphemistically described as ‘interrogators’, everything seemed awfully quiet here. The walls must be thick. 

Ikuro indeed was behind the desk in the sparsely decorated office that adjourned the cell block holding the six prisoners. He greeted Tobirama with the oddly warm smile and a nod. “Back again,” his voice was quiet, deceptively soft.

“Back again.” Tobirama repeated, raising an eyebrow. Exchanging pleasantries was something he really had no time for - given his - your - predicament. Any waste of time felt like a crime at this point. And then again, he never liked chitchat much. “Any news?”

Ikuro shook his head. “Not regarding your problem, I’m afraid, given we know Zenji is the only one to interrogate about that. I take it you made progress, however.”

That was unsurprising. Despite all that happened, it had only been a day. A single day. “Something to test out, yes.”

Ikuro’s smile spread slightly. Tobirama wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but quickly decided he didn’t care enough to form an opinion just yet. “There is one question though,” his smile faded. Tobirama frowned. “Now that we know Zenji is the only one who knows how to make the leash, do you want to use it on him again? I know we did the last time, however, if we permanently injure him…” He trailed off, but Tobirama well caught the implication.

He crossed his arms then. A fair point that he hadn’t considered yet. Since there were six prisoners in total, he had more than enough test subjects to choose from. But picking Zenji had the additional possible merit of gleaning more information about the leash during the interrogation, at the cost of, well, risking him. It all boiled down to whether Tobirama was confident enough in his work to not harm a person permanently, or not.

He hated it. But, “The substance I brought with me today will be more aggressive than the one I used last time. So, no. Let’s pick someone else. If it works well, we’ll focus on him again.” He was set on giving that man hell until he gave up his secrets. Or Tobirama had figured it out himself. Either way.

Ikuro nodded then. “Alright. We’ll pay a visit to Kimi.” The smile was back again.

Tobirama instead scowled, his tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Why do I get the fleeting notion that is the loony one from the far end?”

Ikuro bellowed a sudden laugh that startled him, both eyebrows rising. He wouldn’t figure this man’s humour out, really. “You are as perceptive as they say, Tobirama.” Then he rose to full size and Tobirama followed with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. The walk down the cell block was accompanied by the well-known feeling of eyes on him. Not that Tobirama cared for those, either. Except for one pair. 

Zenji’s. His scarlet eyes darted to the side when they passed the middle cell. Tobirama was satisfied to find his black-bruised jaw was swollen. The look the man gave him was nothing short of hateful. He never broke his stride and followed Ikuro, surprised Zenji didn’t holler anything after him. Perhaps the jaw just hurt too much, hm.

Finally they reached Kimi’s cell. Like all the others, she also was chained up and sealed away. Her gaze seemed empty, staring a hole into the ceiling. That would soon change, Tobirama knew. Ikuro unlocked the cell. “Kimi,” he greeted warmly, like she was a friend.

“Go fuck yourself,” she shot back instantly but perfectly nonchalant. Tobirama’s eyebrows shot up. So much for friends. Her blue eyes locked with Tobirama’s. “Oh,” suddenly, her tone was infused with a shrill kind of adoration. “A high visitor!” Tobirama had to refuse the urge to cover his ears. “Tell me, tell me,” she chanted, swinging back and forth in the chains that held her. “How’s Y/n, how is she? Mhm?”, she exposed surprisingly bright teeth in a grotesque smile.

Tobirama didn’t even find her worth talking to; he could only roll his eyes and sigh exasperatedly. Enemies like this he knew to take serious - erratic behaviour covered up some of the most impressive techniques. But this wasn’t a fight. And he wasn’t about to try and converse with the likes of her. Not even in a cynical banter. He gazed at Ikuro. “Shall we?”

Kimi moaned loudly. “Awh, come on!”, it was an obscenely wanton sound. “Gimme a shred, please, please, please? I’m missing Y/n so, so much!”

Tobirama started to wonder if he had to break another jaw here. The ire that started to burn in his veins again surely provided enough fuel. His head tilted forward slightly as his stare narrowed, darkening.

Ikuro was already next to Kimi, shaking his head. He must’ve guessed at Tobirama’s thoughts - not that his body language wasn't enough of a giveaway. 

Kimi wasn’t helping her situation. “Tobirama Senju doesn’t find me worth talking tooo!”, she screamed then in a most offended way, loud enough for probably everyone in this building to hear. Not that she was wrong in any way. This woman would be better off without her vocal chords.

“Kimi,” Ikuro began, still sugary sweet. “You’re going to help us a little.” His hand seized the back of her head already, grasping her brown hair firmly.

She stiffened immediately, but the smile that spread over her lips now was nothing short of malicious. Typical, Tobirama figured - completely mad behaviour, but far from idiotic. “Oh.” It was a sharp sound. “My turn to get your itty-bitty-wannabe-leash?”

Tobirama’s mien remained completely impassive. “Are you going to open your mouth or are we going to have to force you, like your compatriot?”, entirely unfazed by threatening her with violence.

Not that she was fazed, either. And smart enough to know better than to put up a fight now. “I always wanted to taste the stuff, mhm,” she tried to nod her head, but Ikuro’s grip was iron already. “No need to break my jaw like dumb Zenji’s. Show me what y’got, Tobirama Senju, show me,” she then moaned again, lasciviously almost.

Tobirama’s lips drew into a disgusted scowl. “Good grief, how do you work with these people,” he scoffed. Ikuro was grinning widely. “I should’ve picked Zenji,” he added almost inaudibly. Kimi opened her mouth wide and stuck her tongue out, licking over her lower lip in distasteful ways. Still, he didn’t trust her for one second. And the contents of this vial were too precious for this maniac to spit back at him, which he was sure she would. His free hand seized her jaw tightly so that if she bit down, she’d seriously injure her cheeks. Kimi already spluttered. The moment Tobirama felt she wanted to speak more, he simply applied more pressure. He had enough of this nutcase.

Swiftly, he poured the contents of his vial into her mouth and in a well practiced move pressed down harshly on her nose and mouth to force her to swallow. Her eyes became glassy - luckily, he had been wise enough to keep her mouth shut, because he was perfectly sure she’d have licked his hand or done something equally disgusting had he not.

Not that much was needed. Obediently, she swallowed.

Followed by a shrill scream. Tobirama’s patience was a candle that burned on both ends at this point. He didn’t even put it past Kimi that this was precisely what she was aiming for but by all that he believed in, it worked. The woman let out a heavy tirade of sexually loaded metaphors about what she was seeing and feeling that might have turned a more innocent person bright red on the spot.

It elicited nothing but fast growing annoyance out of Tobirama, however. And Ikuro was grinning as he closed his eyes. He gave him a dark glare. The man had known, for sure. This better yielded good results. When he reached for her throat to examine her, his hand grasped so tightly Kimi’s voice got stuck in its tracks and all that remained was a small rivulet of obscenities at Ikuro, who had begun to invade her mind again. Squeaks, no more.

Much more bearable.

Now to examine her. He made no effort to be gentle about this whatsoever. Ikuro’s work was marvellous as before. Unsurprisingly, Kimi’s mental defense was nothing short of impressive. Perhaps Tobirama was imagining it, but Ikuro’s methods seemed different here - more brutal. More smothering. Akin to what he had done to Akio - less thought to the risk he was running. Was Ikuro himself fed up with her? The thought darkly amused Tobirama.

Kimi stayed completely stable throughout the whole procedure. Her chakra flow was almost as muted as yours was after indigestion of the leash, however it picked up again during the session. Tobirama had expected it, but with the additional experience in the whole weaving process, it gave him clues on how to improve on that. Briefly he stopped monitoring her to take a blood sample. Not an easy task as there was no patch of skin exposed save for her neck and head, so he had to go for the jugular artery as the veins would be collapsed. It bore a slight risk - but none that Tobirama even cared about. Unceremoniously he stabbed the needle in where he felt the pulse after having released his choke hold on her throat - an opportunity she used to gargle out profanities at both him and Ikuro, but the mental assault heavily impaired her ability to form coherent sentences. What was coherent by her standards anyway, Tobirama figured. After he had gotten what he needed from her neck, he continued to monitor her. The half-frozen state of her chakra remained steady for a while before it dropped more.

Ikuro began to retreat then, slowly. 

“Wait,” Tobirama instructed. His presence lingered then, still keeping Kimi in a mental choking hold.

As her chakra became less and less mute, the disruption kicked in more. And with it, for the first time there seemed to be genuine distress in the prisoner, indicated not by crude insults, but a genuine groan of pain. 

“Interesting,” Tobirama muttered, smugly, almost. Kimi whimpered while Tobirama took time to thoroughly investigate how her chakra tried to repel his disruption, over and over again - and each time, the reaction became worse for it, accompanied by a never ending stream of pained expressions. Watching the agony unfolding inside of her.

He felt no satisfaction, no. But he was pleased. A success, finally.

After a while of monitoring, he took another blood example. Ikuro was frowning now. “I’m not sure how much more she’ll take, mentally,” he announced.

“Well, physically, she’s well off. I won't say anything about her mental state, that has been debatable to begin with," Tobirama grunted. This was nothing compared to what you went through. The plight they ultimately had put you in.

Ikuro withdrew then, but Tobirama had to stay. After all, the disruption first had to fade at some point. He knew it would - this wasn’t the leash,  yet . But it was the right way. Slowly, Kimi’s body started to clear out the disruptive components alongside her chakra - another fascinating realisation that was different to when he had examined you. In you, the leash stuck - no matter how much your unmuted chakra and body battled it, it just kept on disruption and repelling it, thus causing the detrimental health effects. But Kimi’s cleared Tobirama’s out.

He withdrew then. Ikuro raised an expectant eyebrow. “She will be fine,” Tobirama announced, turning on his heels to leave the cell. He had new material to work with.

Ikuro followed swiftly after locking the cell containing the now limp Kimi.

The glare Zenji gave Tobirama now was decidedly murderous. Tobirama grinned back, darkly. Arrogantly. Zenji might as well know he was on their heels. His threats have not been empty. He almost had passed the cell, when Zenji’s strained voice echoed through the cell block: “Four more days, Tobirama fucking Senju,” the pain was obvious. Good. Nobody had healed the fracture, then. “Don’t think for a second you’re anywhere near perfection yet! Y/n’s gonna die so fucking miserably!”

Tobirama kept on walking, ignoring the new flare of ire in his veins. The urge to turn on his heels and break his jaw in new ways. Hell, rearrange his damned face. No, Zenji was beneath him he kept telling himself as he ground his teeth so hard his own jaws hurt. Back in the office, Ikuro closed the door. “I’m impressed, Tobirama.” His gaze was appreciative. For a split second, he believed this to be about reigning his temper in and was about to reply in a most impolite way to such a condescending remark, but he quickly realised this was not the case.

“Thanks.” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. The praise for his work was hollow when he reminded himself why he was doing this - and that it was far from perfect yet. “I’ll be back soon. I trust you didn’t learn anything pertaining to my task?”, not that he thought so, but he had to ask anyway.

“Sadly, no. It was a fruitful session, especially considering it was Kimi, but it seems Zenji’s slip up was not a false lead. She really does not seem to know about the leash’s creation.” Then, he frowned. “But, she adamantly guarded anything relating to the leash. Perhaps there is more to glean from her.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, then we know to build up more pressure.” 

Ikuro nodded, surprisingly somber now. “Indeed. I’ll inform you if anything from the other prisoners might come up.”

Tobirama bowed slightly. “Thank you.” Ikuro was a good man to work with. 

A second later, the world lurched and the hiraishin seal transported him back to your room, where the little victory he celebrated dissipated swiftly.

The mood was dreary - and the innate hum he felt due to his sensory skills had picked up from the last time. It could only mean one thing. By now it was high noon and the sun’s light reflected off of the room’s pale furniture. Hashirama’s back was turned to him but the blanket was pushed aside - revealing your marred legs. On them, more seals, which he couldn’t make out precisely at this distance. Instantly, Tobirama rounded your bed swiftly, to find Hashirama working on the heart seal. Still, he couldn’t help but gasp when he saw your whole form revealed like this: a shadow of your former self and almost no part of you that didn’t bear a barely healing mark of torture. It didn’t deter him from analysing the situation, but it’d never fail to drive a proverbial blade through his heart.

Your breaths were quick and shallow again and Tobirama was sure to hear a rumble in there. Not good. Your lung was affected. Combined with the fact your body definitely was paler than before and the sheen of sweat that covered your skin, the situation was obvious.  You didn’t move - and in your face, the grimace of pain was etched into your skin.

It was worse than before. And they hadn’t stretched the interval as much as before, yet.

Hashirama’s gaze swept up to him when he had finished what Tobirama guessed was strengthening the seal that supported your heart. His mien was grave. “We can’t wait much longer.” He gave Tobirama a quick rundown of what had happened: the withdrawal had kicked in again as before, but the symptoms developed faster, and more severe. As he had guessed, your lung was starting to suffer damage not just on the slight, microscopic level Tobirama had witnessed during the first stretch but in a greater margin. Your cardiovascular system required more support as your heart struggled, too. He still hadn’t intervened directly, yet.

Tobirama swallowed finally and nodded and nodded. Then, he looked down on your legs. Each bore another seal meant for transdermal release of the agents the seal in the middle was soaked in. “You drew more seals?” he inquired, terse again.

“We had to,” Hashirama explained, his hand back on your arm and his eyes closed. “Her lucid intervals are too short to ensure her taking the medication by herself. This is more effective and safer.”

“Safer?”, Tobirama shot back, sternly. “There are six seals on her now. Which means we barely have any room for additional chakra based options, if any, without overloading her.”

Hashirama clicked his tongue. “I am well aware, Tobirama,” a slight hint of strain had snuck into his voice now. But instead of angering him, it did the opposite - Tobirama realised how serious your condition was for his brother to even let a sliver of exasperation slip into his tone. And besides. He didn’t say any more.

All they were doing here - it was all dangerous. Too dangerous. They were running into dead ends, either way - be it the leash or the withdrawal of it. And to make you suffer, for a few precious hours? Tobirama swallowed hard against the shortness of breath that gripped this thorax tightly suddenly. “Anjia, I don’t think we should continue. Y/n is suffering and I -,” he swallowed again as his scarlet gaze swept to your face and the hurt in his heart was near unbearable again, “I cannot condone this.”

Hashirama’s eyes flew open and he gave Tobirama a deep frown. “She doesn’t want us to stop. So don’t.”

His gaze wandered to his brother, frowning himself now. “If she dies from the withdrawal, then it was pointless,” he nearly growled, voice stern again, if just to cover up for the gaping hole that the ache was boring into his chest in a most agonizing way.

“She’s not dying. Have more faith in me, Tobirama - and most importantly, her,” he gazed back at you then, voice becoming softer, fonder. Tobirama would never fail to be amazed by his brother’s optimism.

In a very sarcastic way.

“I’m not doubting you or her, anija,” and the sheer notion of him doing so did well enough to distract him from the terrible heartache simply for how furious it made him, “What I am doubting is what we’re up against - effects of something I haven’t fully understood yet or been able to recreate!”

Hashirama took a sharp breath. “On the other hand, we can evaluate her condition, react accordingly and adjust the figurative sails. We will not run a risk. You said so yourself. That, we do know.”

Tobirama looked back on your tormented form. Then he closed his eyes slowly. He hated it - he hated all of this - but he knew, deep down, he knew it - they’d need to continue down the path they had chosen. All of this - it would end soon. Either way. All he could do was to ensure it ended favourably, swiftly. And for as long as it lasted he’d need to remind himself of the promise he had made to you. No matter what. If Hashirama found your condition stable enough to continue - he’d trust him. He had no other choice but to.

“How much longer until the next dose?”, Tobirama asked then, the numb feeling spreading again. He welcomed it. The numbness muted all of the grief, of the ache. His focus returned.

“Not much. Might as well prepare it.” Hashirama instructed, politely refraining from commenting on Tobirama’s falter further.

He nodded and made for doing just that. Not twenty minutes later, they administered it - again, you were stirring from the force with which Tobirama had to pry your mouth open to pour the hated liquid in. The pained way in which you groaned echoed quietly in the sparsely furnitured room as he focused on not spilling a drop while gripping your jaw with vice strength again and holding it open. Uttering apologies he knew you couldn’t hear but he made nonetheless. After he made you swallow it you stilled again.

It had whatever brief respite - if it could’ve been called that - they had gained by stretching the intervals and thus making for more time null. Impressively, it had been shown you paid the price in proverbial blood and if it continued, literal blood might follow.

Tobirama’s only rest would be when he literally crashed, now.

[lovelyirony]

76 for winteriron or 94 for rhodeytony?? ily and your work ma’am your vibes are immaculate -ambivalentmarvel

thank you! and reminder: please send in the full prompt! 

76.) “If you lay a finger on him, I’ll kill everyone in this room.” 

Tony Stark was not supposed to be a detective. He was not supposed to be a lot of things. But when his father had told him at age seven that all he’d ever be was a disappointment, he decided he might as well do whatever the hell he wanted with his life. 

So. A detective. That had gone over well with his college advisor. 

“Aren’t you...aren’t you Howard’s son?” He had said nervously, readjusting his glasses for about the eighth time in seven minutes. 

“Yes, but I also have a mother. And my mother is very keen on my having some skills of my own. Between you and I, we all know my father is going to hand it over to his business partner.” 

(This all is a very direct lie. His mother could not honestly care less what he does with his life as long as he never looks her in the eye and tells her that boxed wine is good. He’s not going to look her in the eye for quite some time.) 

Being a detective isn’t all film noir and extravagant lifestyle. Sure he gets paid the big bucks. He blends into high society well but is just unknowable enough to put on an old pair of jeans and slink into a coffee shop under the guise of being another guy on his laptop. That’s a skill few possess. 

There’s also the tiny, teensy little detail that he’s one of the only detectives to risk secret-agency-detection because in all honesty the security systems were built by Stark Industries and Howard wasn’t exactly what anyone would call “stellar” at security measures. 

Tony, however, was. 

(Did some side work for SI, you know the drill. Sure his father wasn’t exactly thrilled, but it’s not like there was the PR nightmare of Stark Sr. not being as smart in his old age as people always expected.) 

So when he gets an offer for finding and capturing the Winter Soldier from someone named Natalie? 

Well, he asks if he gets to use his frequent flier miles and packs a bag for DC. 

The Winter Soldier is regarded as a conspiracy theory. A man who is all machine, does the dirty work for an undercover organization, and has a shiny arm that can do a lot of things that Tony dreams about at night. 

He likes conspiracy theories. Enjoys the hell out of solving them. (Roswell was a particularly fun one to crack.) 

So he starts with research. 

There is one thing to be said about the Winter Soldier: 

He’s notoriously bad at hiding his tracks beyond the usual security measures. Restricting camera access, destroying tapes, passing off a flimsy excuse as to why a politician, peacemaker, or civilian that was causing a little too much trouble was suddenly found dead, the coronary reports restricted on a need-to-know basis. 

Don’t make him laugh. 

People talk. They always do, doesn’t matter if it’s been a year or thirty. 

The coroners, the police, the people that surrounded the target. They all nervously whisper about suspecting someone else. 

He gets closer to the location. He can tell by the thrum he holds in himself now, the way sleep doesn’t come as easily. (Although he still gets it. You don’t buy 400 thread count for nothing.) 

Hydra is still in business. Of course it is. 

He pays SHIELD a little visit. 

That organization is about the worst-kept secret in the world. He dresses up in a smart suit, ridiculous glasses, and pastes a cheesy grin on his face. 

He’s in an interview for tech. Gets lost on his way there. The person conducting the interviews has them booked back to back. When a “Mr. Edward Jarvis” does not show up for the interview, the next candidate will come in. 

Of course, he looks like any other employee scurrying around with stacks in his arms. Face is obscured by cameras. He’s bypassed Stark Industries’ security features, and he gets to the file room. 

Holy shit. It’s bad. 

After spending at least two minutes thinking he would die from coughing from all the dust. 

They don’t organize anything. All of the paper files, it seems, have been abandoned as soon as the digitized platform came out. (Which makes sense.) 

He finds the file box on Winter Soldier. Everything, suspiciously, is blacked out. But he finds one name: Alexander Pierce. 

For a man who is about to overtake SHIELD and ruin the entire world, you think he’d have a less consistent schedule. Or that his house would be harder to get into. 

Moral of the story: you can break into the window in an attic. 

Tony is making coffee. 

Pierce stops in his tracks. 

“Who the hell are you?” 

“Why do you have Folgers? You live in a nice neighborhood. You live like this?” Tony asks. He takes a swig of coffee, winces. “God I haven’t had stuff this bad since I was in college. Ew.” 

“If you’re here to kill me, you’ve got yourself in a bigger mess than you know.” 

“No, I don’t think I am,” Tony answers. “Because you? You’re stuck here. With me. You can try to run but to be completely frank, your joint medication by the paper towels speak to your ability to outrun me. There’s also the little fact that I’m not here for the typical reason.” 

“So what, you’re not an enemy of SHIELD?” Pierce asks. 

“Of course I’m not,” Tony says, smiling. “Even like a couple of their agents. But you’re not exactly SHIELD, are you? Some PR talked about one head cut off, two more grow back. I’m not exactly sure if you know how human anatomy works, but...” 

Pierce grins. 

“Oh, then you know about our little project.” 

“Of course I do,” Tony says. “Not so little, though. Didn’t get him operational until 1954? What was that, your birth year? Can’t imagine he’s perfect.” 

His smile thins. 

“It’s taken trial and test runs. But he’s perfect now.” 

“Ah, there’s the problem,” Tony says. “Because he probably broke a lot of people, didn’t he Pierce? Probably threw at least one person. I saw the specs for the arm. A lot of power behind that.” 

“And how would you know about the arm?” Pierce asked. “We don’t keep blueprints.” 

“You don’t,” Tony says slowly. “But the creator does. And you should’ve looked a lot carefully at who was behind your little experimental arm, Pierce. You shouldn’t trust a Stark to stay in a lane.” 

His eyes widen. 

Tony loves theatrics. He also likes that he was the one who technically found out about the little quirk. 

“So here’s what you didn’t know,” Tony continues. “Our hypothetical technological inventions have a tracking component on them, just in case we cannot find them in our inventory or database. And even though your scientists did an excellent job at hiding the box and filling it with a truly terrible amount of cookbooks, they did not know about that little feature.” 

Tony pulls out his phone. 

“Your Soldier is in...wow, you’re keeping him local? Pierce, I expected more from you.” 

“What do you want.” 

“I want him,” Tony says. “And I’ll leave you alone.” 

“Absolutely not,” Pierce seethes. “Why would we give you the star of the show?” 

“Because,” Tony says. “Your show sucks, if I’m being completely honest. One branch of Hydra is completely dedicated to the idea of Inhumans and is batshit insane. Another branch is literally only focused on weapons, and another is about this. It’s a shit-show. If there was a show about this I would not give it anything past three seasons.” 

Alexander Pierce looks like he’s going to burst a vein. 

Tony moves on. 

“Along with that if I cannot get him from you, I will be getting him. And if you touch a hair on his head, I will kill you.” 

Alexander Pierce looks mad. Which of course he does. Tony tends to have that effect on people, Rhodey says so. 

“Do you think you can even get out of my house? You think I won’t know your face, know that Tony Stark threatened me? Will anyone even believe you?” 

“Aw Andy, you say the sweetest things,” Tony says smiling. “I told you I was a Stark for two reasons. I’ve already told you the first one, let’s see when you wake up if you can guess the second.” 

“What--” 

And...man down. 

And Pepper told him a taser-pen was “hopefully frivolous” and “why the fuck would you ever make that for a pen you barely you know which coffee cup is yours and you just drink from both.” 

Pierce is left tied up in his kitchen on the floor, Tony admires the window seat for a brief moment, and leaves the files incriminating Pierce along with about sixty to a hundred other people. 

He has a taxi to catch. 

- 

“You know he will probably kill you,” Rhodey says on the phone. “And then I get to give my eulogy and I’m going to tell everyone you secretly liked cheese pizza only.” 

“I will literally commit a war crime against you,” Tony says. “Not even joking. I’ll face Congress if I have to.” 

Rhodey rolls his eyes. 

“You can’t, they’d kick you out.” 

“Oh, just for wearing a ripped up crop top and jean shorts? What, would I be a menace to society?” 

“You’re always a menace,” Rhodey mutters. “Listen, I gotta go. Pepper’s freaking out about your advertisements in the newspaper and the correct grammar.” 

“Bye!” Tony says. 

DC is definitely not Tony’s style. At least, for now. He can’t even enjoy coffee, he has to foil an assassination plot. 

Winter Soldier is not subtle, as he’s said. Neither are the Hydra agents who are just painfully obvious. 

At least this might be done by dinner.

He also faces the Winter Soldier. That’s fun. It’s too early to really be anything but fun. 

He walks right up to him. 

“Do you know someone named Natalie?” Tony asks. 

“What?” Winter Soldier asks. “No. Move or I’ll move you.” 

“Very robotic, ugh,” Tony says, smiling. “No, I have a job to do. You’re not moving me.” 

Winter Soldier lunges. 

Tony sidesteps and throws him off his balance with a cafe chair. 

Their fight takes them to a bridge. 

“You’ve compromised the mission,” Winter Soldier hisses. “Why?” 

“Because I got hired to bring you back,” Tony says. 

“To Hydra?” 

“No,” Tony says. “God no, they’re terrible. No, someone named Natalie wants you rescued.” 

“Natalia,” Winter Soldier murmurs. “How do you know her?” 

“I don’t,” Tony says. “At least, far as I know. I was asked to find you and bring you to her and whoever else is there. So, are you in?” 

He pauses, looks out at the city. 

“How are you gonna get me out of here?” 

“You underestimate the power of tourism,” Tony says. “Let’s go.” 

One “I Visited the Washington” sweatshirt and long hair wrapped into a bun later, Tony is walking out with who appears to be Bucky Barnes. 

“Of course you are,” Tony mutters. “Okay, let’s get to the meeting point.” 

“Are you staying?” Barnes asks. 

Tony cocks his head. “What do you want me for?”

“You just helped me escape from Hydra. You’re most likely near-suicidal. I think you need to stay close.” 

Tony rolls his eyes good-naturedly. 

“I’m not near-suicidal. Of course I’m not. I stick around for a really nice pizza joint. But Natalie--or Natalia, you called her that right?” 

“Natalie’s a fake name.” 

“Of course it is, who names their kid Natalie anymore?” Tony quips. “But besides the point. She probably can do you more good than I can. After all, I don’t ever drink out of the right coffee cup. I am very, insanely doubtful that I am of any help whatsoever.” 

“Fine then,” Barnes says. “I’ll keep an eye on you.” 

“I’m sure you will.” 

Tony doubts this. 

But he drives him to where whoever the hell hired him lives. It’s a nice, upscale apartment. Probably costs about as much as his whole apartment building’s rent in total. 

Of course, the woman who greets them looks gorgeous. Barnes knows her easily enough. 

“Thank you, Stark,” the woman says. 

“What do I actually call you?” Tony asks. “You know my name, I know two of yours.” 

“Call me Natasha,” she says. “And anything else isn’t your business.” 

“Of course not, I would expect a check in the mail otherwise,’ Tony remarks. “So. Barnes is delivered back to you. Expect payment tonight or tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow at twelve,” she answers. “Afternoon.” 

“See you around,” Tony says, waving. “Barnes, try not to kill anyone right now. Seriously gonna ruin the springtime mood, you know?” 

Bucky Barnes stares after him. 

Natasha smiles. 

“Welcome back, James.” 

He nods. Goes and sits in a chair. 

“You gonna turn my brain back to mush or let me stay?” 

“Stay,” Natasha answers. “I escaped Red Room. I knew I needed to get you.” 

“And why not do it yourself? It’s not like you can’t,” he answers. 

“Because I was confident that Tony could leave more of a...dramatic element to it,” Natasha answers. “And he did. SHIELD is currently reforming all of its employees. One of the ladies who always let me eat strawberry yogurt from the fridge worked for them. He also helped dismantle any chance at regrouping to get you.” 

“Smart,” James answers. “Who is he? Stark?” 

“He’s an asshole, but a skilled detective,” Natasha adds. “Son of Howard Stark. You remember him?” 

“He was supposed to be my next mission,” James says, feeling a bit of the Winter Soldier seep back in. “Guess I won’t have a perfect record.” 

“You don’t have a perfect record, trust me,” Natasha adds. “And I didn’t get you for anything other than a rescue mission. You’re free.” 

-

Being free, James finds, is terrifying. 

Natasha has set him up with his own apartment. He has therapy appointments every Wednesday and Saturday. Grocery shopping is...interesting. 

And he keeps using his past skills to check in on Tony, who is doing well in life, if not a bit...wary. 

He’s assuming you don’t expose the underbelly of at least two secret organizations without gaining some traction. 

He’s gotten takeout four times this week. It’s Thursday. This is sad. 

His therapist also recommends that he gets “friends.” James is not exactly sure how to do that. 

So instead he breaks into Tony’s office. 

“We’re friends now,” he announces as Tony yelps and drops his plate. 

“Oh my god you could’ve just not snuck in!” Tony screeches. “I dropped my rolls!” 

They do become friends after that. Tony decides that James needs to try every single coffee shop that’s ever open. 

(He’s a sucker for iced caramel lattes. They’re good.) 

They both learn how to cook different foods, and try to make noodles. 

“Oh my god we’re both disasters,” Tony says, laughing. He takes a picture of James poking at the disastrous attempt. 

“Take me to pizza?” he asks. 

“Like you have to ask,” Tony says. “Come on.” He smiles at him, amazed by how much he’s changed. He grabs his jacket. 

-

 It is Rhodey who clocks it first. 

“You like him,” he crows. “You like him. You like the assassin!” 

“Ex-assassin,” Tony corrects. “And no. Of course I don’t.” 

“You call him ‘babe’, Tony.” 

“And I call you all sorts of pet names,” Tony argues. 

“Calling me literally the weirdest pet names like ‘honeybear sweetums’ or ‘platypus’ does not count,” Rhodey says. “You do don’t call me babe. Besides, you like hugging him all the time and I guarantee that you like him. Even if he is an ex-assassin and still thinks completing a thousand piece puzzle gives you the same rush of serotonin as jumping out of a car.” 

“He’s fun like that!” Tony protests. “Besides, he doesn’t have a lot of people in his life.” 

“That’s a lie,” Rhodey says. “He regrettably met Steve. Again. And he has Sam. Which I think they are friends. Natasha makes him do things.” 

“Wow your description of friends are so amazing,” Tony deadpans. “It’s like you have some of your one. You sound like a robot.” 

“I’m still right, it’s not like I’m not,” Rhodey says. “You know this. Pepper probably also knows that you like James.” 

- 

He consults Pepper. Clearly she will have some sense. 

“I demand a raise,” she says. “Because I can detect this shit better than you can.” 

“You’re getting a raise but not because of this.” 

“Good,” Pepper says. “Now go organize a nice dinner out or something. Get out of here. I’m rearranging your office desk.” 

Tony groans. He hates it when she does that. 

- 

He supposes they are both right. 

So he also supposes that he might have to take James to a coffee shop and tell him. 

- 

What Tony doesn’t know is that James is gearing up to tell him that he likes him. 

It was brought to his attention by Sam and Natasha. 

“You like him,” Sam says. 

“We’re friends!” 

“Friends don’t write their wedding vows on a napkin,” Natasha remarks. “Go organize a coffee date and tell him. I swear if you don’t tell him I’m going to make you confess at three a.m.” 

“If you get me up at three a.m. I’m violating so many rules,” James says. “Like at least four.” 

“Do five!” Steve yells from the couch. “And tell Rhodey hi for me!” 

“No, he hates you,” James says. 

“Exactly!” 

He sighs, texting Tony. 

hey can u meet me @ clocktower, 7? 

sounds gr8 :) 

Tony doesn’t know why James wants coffee. But he’s happy and definitely only that, ignore his shaking fingers. It’s the caffeine clearly. 

(The caffeine isn’t helping. He knows that.) 

“Hi,” James says. “Thank you for coming to the coffee shop. Tonight.” 

“You’re awkward,” Tony blurts out. “Why are you speaking in fragmentary sentences?” 

“That was at most only one fragmentary sentence.” 

“Oh.” 

They sit for a moment, James goes to get coffee. 

Tony steels himself. 

“You remember how I told you that you probably weren’t going to see a lot of me?” Tony asks. 

“Are you leaving?” James asks, eyes wide. “I’m going with you. Obviously.” 

“No you dumbass, I’m not leaving,” Tony says, taking another sip. “But do you remember?” 

“Clearly,” James says with a snort. 

“Well I was wrong. And we’re friends. And...well. Fuck it. I love you, and not in a like a friendship way. I really, really have been wondering what it’s like to kiss you. And if you don’t feel the same way then just tell me and we’ll be cool just give me like a month.” 

James grins. 

“You mean to tell me we can finally actually go on a date at that fancy seafood restaurant you’ve been dying to go to?” 

“We could’ve always done that, but yes it will be nice to look at you across,” Tony says. 

James takes his hand, smiling. 

“Can I take you out on Friday then?” 

“I’ll wear my best suit,” Tony says, grinning. 

- 

When they’re asked about how they meet, it’s not exactly like you can say “oh I got assigned to find and capture the love of my life and we also managed to wreck a secret organization” for the origin story. 

So they usually keep telling people they met while on a business call. 

Technically true. 

[linggluu]

TF is such a shitty company lol. The statement from the other day basically is like "It's not our fault MJQ failed Gaokao, however this does not reflect on our other artists and trainees. We have three people who made it into 北电/伯克利/中戏。In TNT , ZZY made the excellent grade of 474, passing the benchmark requirement for 4 year universities. "Another group mate" also made it into 北电。 From here on, we will make sure MJQ and the others focus on their education."

Smh they didn't even give DCX a name. 狗公司记得你有三个爹啦? Pulling Tfboys who got into universities themselves and one of which who just graduated??

First off, you should have always been making sure they were keeping up with their studies.

Secondly, this proves that WJK/YYQX/QX got into those schools based on their grades alone and not 公司安排的。It disproves claims that the company pulls strings to get into those prestigious schools. The company can only give recommendations like "You should go to schools overseas" and "take a gap year to work" (said to WY/WJK) aka "your scores won't be high enough to pass Gaokao. Both WJK and YYQX were pretty much at work until the month before gaokao. They had to pack in 3 years of knowledge into less than 30 days. They still got into 北电 and 中戏 with stellar grades (for people that work 20 hours a day with zero free time). Their schedules were jammed with packed and there were tons of people saying WJK/YYQX were both at school doing 1 on 1 tutoring and studying their textbooks on flights. WY already had wanted to go to Berklee in 2017 - because he really wanted to (his major is Professional Music, he probably thought music schools in China weren't worth it) and partly probably because he knew he couldn't make the Gaokao grades. He still took the TOEFL, passed interviews and had a great portfolio though. He was totally prepared to be out of the limelight for 4 years, which takes a lot of balls.

Even with TNT, the 物料 we see is the kids studying. With the exception of LYW with 1 on 1 tutoring because he's still in middle school(just graduated lol) , the other 6 have a class with 1 teacher. Which I think is really stupid because the kids are all in different grades. TNT and TFBOYS were both doing homework and studying between schedules.

TF is an entertainment company, not a charity. They make the kids work, hire private tutors but their personal grades are up to them. MJQ failing was a huge wakeup call; Tfboys got into their high schools and universities based on their grades even though they barely have time to sleep. If they failed to get into university it's not your fault, but if they did get in, they didn't get your help either. University is not necessary for their futures but a young 流量 celebrity without a degree is still looked down upon and could affect their 红色资源 and definitely their future offers.

@ TNT, better put away the phones, stop playing on 抖音 and crack open the textbooks to study your butts off. Next year, 马嘉祺 (failed)敖子逸(failed/skipped their round of exams)姚景元 (failed) better be up for Gaokao again. 宋亚轩，贺峻霖 and 严浩翔 are gonna be there too so take less jobs, pay ZZY to tutor you and 往死里读！

Being idol is their job but they are also students. A student needs to do their job, study. If they can sing, dance, be on tv and make the money most people can't even make in a life time, they need to have the goods to back them up. Even though they won't need the degree, 一个流量爱豆在如今的ylq还是需要一个科班弟子才能被主流圈认证!

As for MJQ, he locked himself up for three months. I don't believe he didn't work hard but I believe he didn't prepare as much as he could have. All three Tfboys got into college (and they were muchhhh busier). So did Ding Chengxin and Zhang Zhenyuan who are literally in the same band, same work conditions and same teachers. He could have delayed his Gaokao for a year; I'm sure he knew what kinds of grades he was gonna get based on his own knowledge. But the fact that he took the 艺考 and passed says to me he wants to go to college so he took a gamble and failed.

It does sounds like he intends to 复读 lol. 他那么要强,那么在意面子, I don't believe for a second that a person who gets a dance move wrong and goes to slap himself in the bathroom would give up. This is not a failure, it's a lesson. 总之，小马加油!

[mythgirlimagines]

Monitoring your every move, ready to strike when least expected, is this week’s talent swap! Introducing Myth, the Former Ultimate Chess Player!

———————————————–

BACKSTORY AND TALENT

Having an overly analytical mindset ever since she was a child, Myth solved the puzzles she was given quickly and burned through mental stimulation toys like it was nothing. It really put a dent in her parents’ wallet, and they needed to find some way to entertain her daughter before they become flat broke. One day, when Myth and her parents visited the toy store to find a new toy for her, Myth became enticed by the board games section, particularly a chessboard, which her parents managed to buy. Myth picked up on the rules of chess very quickly, and dominated both her parents and older sisters in the game. Eventually Myth signed up for chess clubs and defeated each and everyone of the other participants, and in turn, managed to reach grandmaster rank. One tournament, Myth decided to wear a chess themed dress to throw opponents off and make them underestimate her, before completely decimating them. She is still wearing the dress to this day.

————————————-——————

RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Former Ultimate Freelance Artist

Having garnered fame on the internet for her realistic drawings of animal corpses and dinosaur bones, Wyre has been Myth’s friend ever since childhood. In fact, Wyre was the one who came up with the original design for Myth’s dress. Wyre regularly attends Myth’s chess tournaments as a bodyguard of sorts, with Wyre’s intimidating glare and feral personality scaring anyone who decides to toy with their little friend. While Wyre is a great friend and everything, Myth is heavily concerned with her friend’s work schedule and the toll it has on their  mental health and fortitude. 

Outfit: A black ski cap with a skull pin on the front, a black leather vest with a white dragon design on the back over a brown hoodie with bone designs on the sleeves, black fingerless gloves with skull designs, black shorts, socks, shoes, glasses and piercings from original designs.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Grave Digger

Being the daughter of a mortician and a funeral planner, Scar has been interacting with the dead ever since she was a little girl, and is currently working in the funeral home as a grave digger. Being ostracized for both her interest in the dead and her middle school persona, (aka. Death’s Messenger) Scar tried her best to shake the facade, but she can’t help but fall back on that facade. Scar seems to be fully convinced that Myth is some sort of esper, for she managed to uncover her true personality within the first couple minutes of meeting her. ”The Pawn’s Empress” is one of Death’s Messenger’s biggest foes yet.

Outfit: Original outfit but with dirt stained boots and gloves and her funeral home’s logo on the back of her jacket.

Fusion Anon, Ultimate Boy Scout

Having collected all of his scout troupe’s merit badges in record time, Fusion currently works on educating younger scouts in getting merit badges and even teaches his fellow con-mates the art of the boy scout. Ever since coming to the Kibo-Con, Fusion has established leadership amongst the younger Ultimates, a bit like a father to the group, and gives them seminars on scouting skills. Myth’s natural genius made her ace Fusion’s seminars with ease. Fusion’s happiness at showing off his knowledge and scouting skills seems to imply a less-than-stellar self-confidence/an inferiority complex.

Outfit: A green visor, a tanned cargo jacket with badges sewn in, bandages wrapped around his hands, a green sash with badges crowded on it, glasses, pants and shoes from original design.

Fusion Anon II, Ultimate Private Investigator

Despite her lackadaisical and sarcastic attitude off of the job, you would be hard-pressed to find a more capable private investigator. Fusion II claims that she went for a private investigator as her job as opposed to a detective, because she can turn down cases she deems too easy or not worth her time. But Myth eventually realized that underneath Fusion II’s memey, rebellious, and sarcastic demeanor, Fusion II is secretly very insecure about her detective skills, especially after getting an innocent man convicted once. Fusion II is currently working to uncover the mystery that is Myth. 

Outfit: A light blue fedora with a black band and a red rose, a light blue trench coat over a white shirt and a red necktie, a long blue skirt, black and white laced boots, sunglasses from original design. 

Just Anon, Ultimate Toymaker

Famous for his expertly-crafted stuffed rabbits, Janon usually spends all of his time either sleeping or insulting people. Within the first few minutes of meeting Janon, Myth has already uncovered a fear of failure, a perfectionist attitude when it comes to making toys and a soft spot for children, particularly the two Jr. Ultimates that are attending the Kibo-Con with him. Janon is sick and even more tired of Myth constantly exposing him like this. Janon is currently trying to make a voodoo doll of Myth to make her suffer, as revenge for constantly exposing him and making him seem like less of a jerk. 

Outfit: A lazily buttoned up shirt, an untied red tie, a tool belt, a face mask with a “w” mouth and blushy cheeks, pants, boots and hoodie from original design. 

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Seamstress

Famous for being the scion of the ”Spectacular Threads” company, Sparkle is famous for her glittery and elaborate hand-crafted formal wear. While Wyre designed the original design of Myth’s dress, Sparkle was the girl Wyre sent the design to, to get it created, which means Myth and Sparkle go further back than one would expect. Myth knew Sparkle before they both reinvented themselves with new flamboyant personalities, and when Sparkle was just a shy magical girl and theater fanatic. Even as an adult, Myth can still see Sparkle is still the same nerd she was when Myth first met her, deep down. 

Outfit: Same outfit from her original design, but with sewing supplies attached to her clothes.

Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Ghost Hunter, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Police Officer

Despite their two different talents, Egg and Wet Sock have many things in common, with the biggest similarity between the two being their appearance, their uniforms, and above all, their penchant for cursed comments. Even Myth‘s analytical attitude is no match for the nonsensical and violently cursed comments of the freak duo. It’s very clear that years of dealing with violent criminals and supernatural horrors would take a toll on anybody’s psyche. Even Myth doesn’t want to think about what horrors the two have witnessed within their careers that twisted their minds to such cursed degrees. 

Outfits: Gakurans, police caps, white gloves and a golden badge. Egg has a purple uniform, and Wet Sock has a black uniform, glasses from original design.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Tutor

Despite their age, Curious has college-level academic prowess and uses that knowledge to help tutor students of all ages, and can turn underachievers into overachievers with their infinite patience and flawless study strategies. It didn‘t take much time for Myth to realize one of the main flaws of Curious: their passiveness and willingness to let people walk all over and take advantage them. Myth would often organize tea parties disguised as study sessions to talk to Curious more, for they are basically an open book, despite what their vocal and facial range would suggest.  

Outfit: Hair pulled into a small ponytail, fake glasses, a green vest over a white button up shirt, tie, pants and shoes from original design.

Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Lifeguard

Originally getting the job purely for some extra pocket money, Nerd quickly rose through the ranks and quickly became an emergency technician for beaches. Nerd’s good looks were seen as both a blessing and a curse by him, for many admirers purposefully drowned themselves, just so Nerd can give them mouth-to-mouth. This, along with poor pay in the early parts of his career, lead to his hostile attitude towards everybody, particularly people with a crush on him or people he has a crush on. Myth told Nerd the truth, and got thrown into the nearest body of water by him, and he didn’t save her. 

Outfit: A tight grey muscle shirt, red swim trunks with black stripes on each side, red flip-flops. 

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Competitive Eater

Despite Eldritch’s small size, Eldritch has an appetite rivaled only by Fusion’s. Eldritch originally entered the competition as a poison tester, in order to prevent the participants from being sabotaged and perhaps murdered, but Eldritch managed to dominate the competitions. Eldritch has now participated in 255 eating competitions all across the country, and even outside of the country. Eldritch seems to be the first person to look past Myth’s little cutesy facade, and seems to want to avoid Myth at all costs, which makes it difficult for Myth to get a read on him. 

Outfit: A purple jersey with “Poison Tester” on the front in yellow letters, dark grey cargo shorts, white socks, black and yellow sneakers. 

Dream Anon, Ultimate Street Artist

Dream is famous for her paintings of rainbow clouds on random buildings and roads. Despite Dream’s rough life on the street, somehow she remains as bright and cheerful as her infamous murals. After being busted by the police for her vandalism, Dream got accepted by the Hope’s Peak scouts, and got to get out of jail, in exchange for food and shelter at her Hope’s Peak dorm room. You will bet that Dream would accept the offer full-heartedly. Myth totally didn’t expect someone as cheerful as Dream to have one of the roughest pre-con lives, but Myth now wants to adopt Dream.

Outfit: Wild hair, a denim jacket stained with paint over a pink shirt, black paint-stained boots, skirt and shorts from original design. 

Iris Anon, Jr. Ultimate Child Prodigy

Having one of the highest IQs for a child her age, Iris already graduated college with several degrees, mostly in science. Iris’s determined attitude and love for learning made many universities consider her for their adorable mascot. While everyone else views Iris as a clumsy and dorky optimist who never gives up when it comes to her work, Myth knows the truth behind Iris. Because of her status as a child prodigy, lots of pressure was put upon her, which only served to arouse her already existing anxiety. From that point onwards, Iris and Myth gather for weekly chess games. 

Outfit: A dark blue sweater over a white sailor uniform with a red tie and skirt, grey stockings, blue Mary Janes, glasses from original design.

Purple Anon, Ultimate Couples Dancer

Growing up in a high-class family that is known for their equally high-class masquerade balls, Purple’s skills on the ballroom dancing floor are unparalleled. Unfortunately off of the dance floor and deprived of her masquerade costume, Purple is superbly timid, regularly staying in her room, until Hope’s Peak accepted her. Purple’s vocabulary is about as elaborate and old-fashioned as her family’s masquerade balls. Luckily Myth is smart enough to understand her vocabulary. Myth is currently working on giving Purple confidence lessons, knowing that it could help her find her chosen one. 

Outfit; Mid-back length hair, a mask that is black on the left and white on the right, a black sunhat, a matching black dress, black gloves, purple heels. 

This series revolves around this enigmatic chess champion exposing people for their emotional problems, while some people (read: Scar and Fusion II) try to find out the secret behind her.

—————————————-—————

PERSONALITY

The best way to describe Chess!Myth would be a more benign version of Celestia, right down to the fashion. She is very intelligent and analytical, which is how she discovered chess in the first place. Myth gets easily bored and needs constant mental stimulation, usually by competing with chess champions or buy simply kicking back and watching people interact. People are unpredictable creatures, after all. But perhaps the most prominent trait about her would probably be her ability to read people like a book. It’s very hard to lie to her face, for she will expose your lies to YOUR face. This helps a lot in chess, but this also makes her a very empathetic and kind-hearted individual. 

——————————————————-

APPEARANCE

Myth wears her purple-dyed hair into twintails with a black and white scrunchie in each, and wears a black crown with red gems embedded into and on it. Myth wears an entirely black and white dress with asymmetrically-colored sleeves and dress tails. On her nails is black polish on her left hand and white polish on her right hand. 

——————————————————-

I hope you like this version of you, Myth! Let me know what you think! See you soon, kiddos!

-Fusion Anon

---

Two things! One, love this!!! Two, when you said “Celestia” I automatically thought of the MLP:FIM character XD I’m so used to calling Celestia Celeste, lol

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt.48

Lance couldn’t wait for the day to be over. Matt was as passionate about technology as Pidge was, Pidge was living on his sofa because she missed her brother. Work had sucked and he actually had to make an appearance in Platt thanks to a case, which he hadn’t told Keith about yet, and Keith was still feeling the effects of drinking milk.

Dinner had been loud, Rieva and Shay had hit off, Lance learning more about her during dinner than he’d learned the whole week before. Hunk and Shay kept making “lovey” eyes over the dinner table, and he hadn’t been able to do the same with Keith. Pidge had teased him gently about getting faking sick to get Lance into bed, Keith had laughed it off, but hell, he was only kind of human and he’d really missed having Keith around the house. Curtis had tried to fill in on the role of kitchen hand, but he really didn’t get along with technology so it was easier for Lance to just do everything himself. Matt had peed on his death soil, while as a wolf, and Lance had felt he seriously deserved some major Keith time after cleaning that up. He hadn’t spent three months making it just for Matt to decide it smelt funny and needed his scent instead. Yeah. He was bummed that Keith wasn’t feeling well when he’d turned up, but he had scored pretty much a whole day of relaxing in bed as boyfriend slept it off. Keith couldn’t help that he was lactose intolerant, but of all the days he could have messed up, it really could have been the day that wasn’t coming over.

After dinner Pidge insisted on a games night... Lance just wanted to cuddle with Keith and pretend they weren’t keeping their relationship on the down-low, but Pidge wanted Keith to spend time with them before he left again... Keith was towed away by Pidge to the living room, Hunk and Shay staying to help with the dishes. He still proud as hell that Hunk had snagged Shay, and loved having Shay over. She came with great customer service stories, and was just so likeable that he’d wished he’d cornered Hunk into asking her out sooner. Yet he totally felt like the third wheel. At least when it was him, Curtis, Matt, and Rieva, he and Curtis both had each other to hang with. He’d gotten Curtis into teen rom-coms, the exhunter soon as invested in them as he was. And there was the fact Curtis had started to loosen up. He still pointed out things he didn’t need to, but things were moving more towards friendship rather than babysitting.

Pidge’s game night consisted of breaking up into three teams. Her, Shay and Rieva. Shiro, Hunk and Curtis . Him, Keith and Matt. Hooking her tablet up to the TV the first game was Pictionary, where they all failed miserably at using the stylus to draw. After five rounds, Pidge’s group claimed victory, which she was well and truly smug over. It totally wasn’t his fault that Keith and Matt were as hopeless as he was when it came to art. In his mind he knew everything he needed to do, but that didn’t translate to his drawings. Adding alcohol to the mix, they moved onto charades. Lance liked to think he was a pretty good actor, but somehow that was taken out by Shiro’s team, who’d definitely had found favouritism somewhere along the line as their prompts were much easier than everyone else’s. When Pidge got mischievous and suggested strip poker, Matt firmly noped out of that. Pidge instead setting up JackBox.

It was well after midnight before they headed up to bed. Keith acting nervous again. Sending his boyfriend to the bathroom to change, Lance changed into pyjamas before climbing into bed to wait for him. His anger loaf had loosened up, his competitive side showing that he didn’t take losing well. Spending the night with Keith and having fun was something he’d missed. Even when all they were doing was watching some lame movie, it was different when Keith was there. He’d never felt as pathetic as he did over the way he missed Keith in his adult life. Still, he was kind of proud that Keith seemed to be adjusting to living alone with Shiro again. Their apartment looked pretty nice, and Keith had sent him a photo of his bed with his new duvet cover. His boyfriend hadn’t been able to find a red one, so instead he had a black duvet cover with red pillow slips. It was very Keith, and only made him miss him more. Well aware of how pathetic he was acting, Lance tried not to snatch up his phone each time he got a new message from Keith. Trying to play it cool, while wanting to reply straight away. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he planned to tell Keith he’d gone into heat, he’d planned on telling him... just not that it’d happened more than once.

Lance was mortified the second time it happened. Matt and Rieva releasing pheromones before they’d gone to bed. Half an hour later the whole house was filled with the sounds of sex, leaving him feeling like a pervert as his body reacted. He’d washed and changed his sheets, yet Keith’s scent hung in the air, his body missing the way his boyfriend held him. He still found himself turning to say something to Keith only for him not to be there more than once. He couldn’t see why Keith was ashamed of being lactose intolerant, when being in a heat was far more shameful. He could only chalk it down to something happened, someone had said something and he hadn’t gotten over it.

Coming back into his room, Lance’s sweats he’d offered as pyjamas were too short for his boyfriend. The shirt a little tight, Lance blushing hard as Keith pointedly didn’t look at him

“Don’t say it”

“Nothing to say”

Nothing to say about the way Keith’s snail trail and hips were showing... There was something sexier about Keith in his clothes. He’d seen him naked and fuck... he had no words for that, but there was kind of an air of mystery when he was wearing clothes

“This is ridiculous”

What was ridiculous was how hot Keith was, even when he was sick

“Get into bed already”

“I can’t sleep like this”

“Then strip off... or at least take the shirt off”

Keith huffed as he did, and damn was Lance’s blood supply fast heading south. Being that grizzled and chiselled should have been illegal. Lance wasn’t in the mood to be fooling around with his boyfriend, not when Keith was ill, but damn if he didn’t want to touch him. Stifling down a groan, he knew if he continued on this train of thought, his stupid heat would pop its head up. Today was about Keith recovering, not him being a horny idiot with no filter on his mouth. He preferred the intimacy of cuddling, because at least then he had some experience in that area.

Climbing into bed with near him, Keith turned his back towards him. Lance didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t been mocking Keith. He’d just given him the first pair of clothes that he’d grabbed out his closet. Keith had been fine with cuddling him before, so why not now? Maybe he liked his own bed better and was regretting staying the night? Hunk and Shay had left. Pidge was downstairs becoming one with the sofa. Curtis was sharing a room with Shiro. Everyone was paying attention to everything other than them... so was Keith... being self conscious or had he said something and upset him without meaning too? He couldn’t think of anything he’d said wrong. Maybe Keith just didn’t want to spend the night next to him? That thought hurt. He was doing his best to get his life back on schedule around missing Keith. Crying wasn’t going to change the fact that Keith had his own job, which Lance wanted him to prioritise. Why was there this weird difference between them now? Rolling away from Keith, Lance pushed his face in his pillow. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t know why he was making a big deal out of this. Keith probably still felt sick and didn’t want to cuddle because of it.

Laying in this awkward silence, Lance sniffled took loudly, drawing Keith’s attention to the fact he was crying. Feeling Keith move up behind him, his boyfriend slipped his arm around his waist. Lance hated that it took crying to draw his boyfriend’s attention, and he hated that he liked Keith cuddling him. He’d tried to downplay his concern over his boyfriend’s health because he really didn’t want Keith feeling self conscious. He wanted Keith to be able to relax when he came home... when he came back to Lance’s house.

“Hey, what is it?”

Keith asking made him feel infinitely worse

“It’s nothing”

“It’s not nothing”

“It is. Just tired. Long day and all. You better get to sleep”

Now he was brushing him off... why was he being so lame?

“Lance, talk to me”

“We’re talking”

“You’re crying”

“It doesn’t matter”

“Yes it does”

Why did Keith had enough to be so Keith like?

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you didn’t want to... I might just sleep downstairs tonight”

“What the hell? Where’s that coming from?”

“I just thought you might be happier up here alone”

“What the fuck?!”

Now Keith was mad at him. He didn’t know what he kept doing wrong. Keith made him forget how to think straight

“I didn’t mean to make you mad. I’ll go”

Taking Keith’s arm off him, Lance slid from the covers

“Lance!”

“I’m sorry”

Yeah. He was being a coward. They’d had fun as a group and now it felt like he didn’t know what to say and do to keep that mood between them. Grabbing up his robe, Lance fled from the room. Rushing down the hall and nearly falling down the stairs in his rush to hide his shameful side from Keith.

He would have fallen down the stairs if he hadn’t run smack into Shiro. The hunter letting out a grunt of surprise, as Lance quickly bounced back then moved to keep fleeing down the stairs

“Lance?”

Why was he being like this? Keith was leaving again tomorrow. Things had to stay good and normal until then...

As he reached his office, the first cramp hit. His stupid heat hitting as his head began to swim. It didn’t explain his less than stellar behaviour, but it’d definitely come on because of it. Shutting the door behind him, Lance locked it. All this thanks to Keith wanting to sleep on his side of the bed was pathetic. He was overreacting big time. He didn’t want to be like this with Keith. He needed to apologise to him.

“Lance, it’s Shiro, can we talk?”

Now wasn’t the time. The only person he should be talking to is Keith. He should be fucking begging him to forgive him... or fuck him. No. That was the heat. He didn’t deserve Keith forgiving him

“Now isn’t good!”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just vampire things!”

“If you’re in heat...”

What? He’d send Keith down to satisfy that burning desire bubbling inside of him?

“I’m staying in here!”

“Okay... okay, but if you need help...”

Oh god. No. He didn’t just want anyone. He wanted Keith. Shiro might be all tall and handsome, but he wasn’t Keith. He wasn’t the one he wanted to bend him over his desk and make him scream

“Shiro, now isn’t a great time! Thanks for concern”

“Okay... I guess I’ll see you in the morning”

“Yep, sure thing buddy. Sleep tight”

Lance flinched at his own lameness. Shiro would go straight to Keith. Keith would tell him he’d been a giant dick about things. Keith would be upset that he didn’t trust him enough to tell him. Falling in love wasn’t perfection. It wasn’t like in the movie. A kiss wasn’t an apology. A million roses wouldn’t be enough of an apology for what he’d done. His Mami had been so happy for them, but the truth was that Keith was in love with a monster... he was a monster who’d hurt Keith.

*

Keith had no idea what had happened. Lance hadn’t curled up around him. That was what his boyfriend usually did. He preferred holding Lance, but Lance liked holding him... and now Lance was crying and he didn’t know why.

Trying to stay away, Keith couldn’t. Lance obviously had something on his mind. But he preferred to clam up instead of talking to him. Sure, Keith was embarrassed. Lance’s clothes had been way too small. For a moment he’d wondered if it’d been a dig at him, until he told himself that Lance wasn’t like that. Maybe Lance thought he still felt sick? He did, but he’d thought they’d had fun... Kind of? Matt was a dumb smart person... and Lance had zero luck at drawing... Then they’d headed upstairs and Lance got weird... and he got weird. He’d slept all day and now they were going to bed again... That was a little weird? Or was he making too much out of it?

Heading out of Lance’s room, Keith shivered. He should have brought a blanket along, the house was bloody freezing. Tucking his hands under his armpits, he kept his steps light, not wanting to run into Shiro. Having zero luck, he ran into him on the bottom step of the stairs

“Fu-... Keith? Don’t do that”

Shiro clutched his chest. The old man was showing his age. Did people just not go to bed and stay in bed?

“What are you doing up?!”

“I was trying to go bed, then I ran into Lance”

“How was he?”

Shiro had seen Lance? He should have gone after him

“Crying. Did something happen?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I came down to ask”

“He’s locked himself in his office. You’re going to have to wait until morning, I think he’s in heat”

Keith shook his head. There wasn’t any scent when he’d l

“He wasn’t in heat when he left. Did you hear anything?”

“Only him trying to cover his crying. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah. I’ll talk to him. You head up to bed”

“You’ll be alright with him?”

Keith snorted, hoping to cover his nerves

“You left me with him all afternoon. I’ll be fine”

“If anything happens, get Matt”

“Yeah, yeah. Go to bed already”

“If he doesn’t want to talk, don’t push it tonight. We’re not leaving until the afternoon”

That was change in plans, but a welcome one. Keith assumed it was to do with the fact Shiro and Curtis had time to talk alone. Whatever, he had his own relationship to think of.

Knocking on Lance’s office door, Keith then pressed his ear against the wood. He could hear Lance crying

“Go away, Shiro. We’ll talk tomorrow”

“Wrong brother. Lance, open the door”

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“No. I want to know why you apologised to me and why you wouldn’t stay and talk”

“Keith, not right now...”

“If I did something...”

“It wasn’t you. It was me... I’m sorry. I thought... I thought I made you mad... I’m sorry”

This was getting nowhere

“Just open the damn door”

The lock on the door clicked, Keith quick to grab the handle and turn before Lance could change his mind. Opening the door, his boyfriend’s scent smacked him, Keith barely had time to process before he had his arms full of a crying Lance

“I’m sorry. I was horrible and I’m sorry and I’m sorry... thought you were mad at me and I couldn’t work out what I did... and... I really want you to want me still, but I’m a monster who hurt you because you didn’t hug me when you got into bed”

Lance’s explanation came out in a panted mess. Keith kind of shocked that the action had reduced Lance to tears, and upset Lance was calling himself a monster again

“You usually like holding me... Hey, no. No more tears, it was a misunderstanding”

“I thought you must regret coming here because I can’t even hold your hand. I can’t kiss you... and...”

Pidge was bound to hear Lance crying and his scent was pungent enough that Matt and Rieva could smell it

“Come back up to bed with me”

“I can’t... I’m barely controlling myself as it is. Right now all I can think about is having you beneath me. I don’t want to rush things”

There was no pressure to rush, provided that didn’t include the rush of blood southwards in Lance’s tight sweats

“Hold onto me”

Lance was confused as Keith lifted him up. The vampire’s teeth scraping against his neck as Lance shook in his arms. They’d had a misunderstanding and Lance had stressed himself into this. This wouldn’t do.

Keith struggled up the stairs, but was determined to prove his point. By the time he got Lance back to his room he’d worked up a sweat. Getting Lance on the bed, Lance turned away from him as he gripped the blankets beneath him. He’d spend all night wanting to touch him. To kiss him. Hunk and Shay could be open and in love. They were taking it slow and without the complications but it was hard not to let it show. Keith hadn’t very social, taking a while to warm up to everyone during dinner, then they’d had a games a night and he still hadn’t been able to touch Lance. Now he finally had him alone again, he wasn’t sure what to do with him. Lance was in heat and Keith’s self control was slipping.

Pulling Lance onto his back, his boyfriend stared up at him with hooded glassy eyes

“I’m going to kiss you now”

Climbing between Lance’s long legs, he pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s lips. Keith had been dying to do that all damn day. One kiss turned to another with ease, Lance’s teeth scraping his lip as his boyfriend rocked against them, the pair making out like the inexperienced idiots they were. Grinding against Lance felt more than good, it was like all the confusing stuff had been chucked out the window and it was just the two of them again. This wasn’t how their first time would go. Keith wanted that to be special, and not in a house full of their sleeping friends. Breaking the kiss, he kissed his way down to Lance’s Adam’s apple, nipping lightly at the smooth flesh. Moaning, Lance rocked his hips harder, clothes now in the way of him touching his boyfriend

“Shirt... off”

Lance moved to obliged, Keith eager to see him beneath the light of the bedside lamp. He loved Lance’s reactions. Loved his little gasps and moans. Everything was amped thanks to his heat, and he smelt incredible.

Lance grew shyer with his shirt off, Keith’s hands sliding across his torso

“What do you want, babe?”

“Babe” had slipped out, Lance was being extra careful with his teeth, normally he’d be biting his lip

“You...”

“How”

“I want you... I don’t care... just mess me up inside”

Keith felt himself smirk, Lance’s legs were still wrapped around him. Thrusting against his boyfriend’s grinding hips, Lance fisted the blankets beneath him as he moaned

“Is that what you want? Me to pin you down and make you come?”

Lance nodded quickly, eyes scrunched tightly closed as he fought to control himself. Keith didn’t know where his burst of confidence had come from... They couldn’t have sex... but there were other ways to have sex

“I want you to get your hands and knees for me. Put your hands on the bed head”

“K-Keith?”

“Let me touch you. I promise I won’t cross that line”

Lance got on his hands and knees as Keith asked. Settling himself behind his boyfriend, Keith pulled Lance’s pyjama bottoms and underwear down, before freeing his erection. He wasn’t sure how the mechanic were going to work, only that he had a vague idea

“Okay, sit back against me”

Lance did as he was told, wetness smearing across Keith’s dick as his boyfriend sat back. With a little manoeuvring, Keith slipped his dick between his boyfriend’s thighs, rolling his hips experimentally

“Fuuu...”

“Keep your thighs together for me”

Lance sitting for him wasn’t working the way he wanted. Moving to kneeling, it made it easier for Keith to slide between Lance’s legs, his boyfriend wet enough that he didn’t need lube. He may or may not have seen this in porn, and may have some reservations until Lance started moving, matching every thrust as he panted. Holding his boyfriend against him, when Lance turned for a kiss, Keith was quick to kiss back, drunk on that sweet smell and being with a man who truly cared for him. Broken kisses fell between the sharp hitching in Lance’s breathing, moving his hand, Keith gripped Lance’s erection lightly enough not to take control, but loosely enough that his boyfriend was fucking his fist. Shuddering, Lance came with a garbled kind of whimpering moan. Keith continuing until his own orgasm hit. Riding the waves of bliss, he pulled Lance down to sit in his lap as he came between his thighs. Moving from kissing, Keith nuzzled into Lance’s cheek, panting as his body shook

“Fuck... babe...”

Staying like that until they’d recovered, Keith pressed kisses to Lance’s cheek

“You okay?”

“I don’t know”

It was an honest answer. They’d both gotten into it and maybe a little carried. It wasn’t penetrative sex, but it was still sex

“Was that too much?”

Keith went into panic mode as Lance sniffled. Ignoring the mess and his pants around his knees, he pulled his boyfriend back so they were both sitting semi-properly

“Lance, talk to me?”

“My heat...”

He sounded so guilty

“It’s okay”

“It’s not... you’re sick...”

“Not as sick as I was”

“I... I was so mean to you”

“You weren’t”

“I was. I was horrible to you and you... I wanted to take care of you but... I got all worked up and acted so rude. I just wanted to cuddle”

Keith’s heart fell

“You didn’t want to do this?”

“I want to be able to do with you without my heat”

“Lance, it’s okay”

“It’s not... I feel like I’m going crazy. I miss you so much. I keep going to talk to you and you’re not there and I wanted to have a normal night but my body can’t even settle down... I really like you. I like you so much”

Could Lance be any nicer?

“I’ve missed you too. I’m so angry at myself for wasting our time together sleeping. I was looking forward to today. Then I got sick, and you got your heat... but you know, we did look after each other. And it’s kind of natural that I want to touch my boyfriend”

Lance’s scent had lessened since coming, but was still there. He knew his boyfriend’s stomach had to hurt with craps similar to his earlier ones

“I just... want to be normal with you”

“I think normal went out the window a long time ago. Have you met our friends?”

Lance snorted wetly as he nodded

“Yeah... yeah. I’m sorry. I think my ego was sad you didn’t cuddle me”

“I wanted to. All night I wanted to”

“Me too. Can... can we clean up and cuddle?”

Lance definitely felt nice in his hold, he might just have to fight his boyfriend for the right to be the big spoon. Kissing Lance’s shoulder, Keith then nodded

“That sounds good to me”

[roswellwrites]

Kinktober Day 6 Fill - Spanking

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire/Reader (M/?)

Tags: Slasher x Reader, Brahms Heelshire x Reader, Brahms Heelshire, Spanking, Gender of reader is kept neutral, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019

Word Count: 1529

It had been a long day.

It had been such a long day.

You had woken up around eight that morning, not all that much later than usual, to find Brahms already waiting for you, dressed and impatient as he rushed you from the comfort of your bed. 

You made breakfast, washed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, cleaned the living room, made lunch, and done the dishes a second time, all while balancing Brahms’s tedious schedule.

Brahms himself had been terrible, in a perpetually bad mood all day, frowning and scowling as he critiqued you endlessly on everything from your table etiquette to your cooking to your less than stellar posture.

What a brat.

“Brahms, get in the shower,” you said now with a roll of your eyes, lifting your coat from it’s hook by the front door and moving to slide your arms inside. “I won’t tell you again.”

“No,” he huffed, his arms crossed over his chest defiantly and his voice high and childlike behind his porcelain mask. “I already told you, I won’t do it unless you come, too.”

“I don’t have the time to play, Brahms, I’ve got to go out and empty the traps.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, drumming his long fingers impatiently against his bicep. “Well, when will you be back?” He asked. “That’s not all you have left to do.”

With how incredibly short his fuse was today, you wondered how long you had until this spiraled into a full blown tantrum. 

“Brahms, with the way you’ve been acting today, I don’t even know if I’m going to come back,” you snapped, doing up your last button and dropping the hem of your coat with a glare. “Maybe I’ll call a cab, head into town, find me a nice bed and breakfast to stay at...” you trailed off, brows furrowed in irritation. “Maybe they’ll let me sleep in.”

This, of course, was the wrong thing to say.

“You can’t leave me!” He screamed, voice cracking from the effort of it as he snarled suddenly from behind his mask. “I’ll kill you before I let you leave me!”

You could feel something in you snap, and you opened your mouth before you could stop yourself. “You know what, Brahms, you’ve been a real asshole today.”

“You can’t speak to me like that,” the man growled, taking a large step forward now, moving as if to cage you against the door with his body.

“I’ll speak to you any way I damn well please!” You snarled back. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks as your own anger began to build in earnest now, your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. 

Brahms was a mess of an adult, quick to anger and quick to take said anger out on those around him. You had seen him shred paintings, tear down curtains, smash anything and everything he could get his hands on, leaving you to pick up the pieces after the storm of his anger had passed. 

He had threatened your life many times by now, something that had been startling to you at first, and before the two of you had really settled in with one another, you had spent many nights lying awake, fearful that your life may end at anytime.

You reached out, placing both hands on his chest as you pushed him away with a scowl.

If he was going to act like a child, you were going to treat him like a child.

“Bend over,” you snapped, slipping immediately into your most stern voice, your tone brooking no argument.

Brahms deflated immediately, whether it was the order itself or the tone you used with him, you weren’t sure. “What?” He asked, suddenly bewildered, his voice small as any anger he held left him like a candle being extinguished.

“You heard me, Brahms. Bend over.”

“I- I don’t-“

“Put your hands on the back of the sofa, spread your feet shoulder length apart, and bend over.”

“But-“

The first slap of your hand as it met his clothed thigh was a surprise for both of you.

Brahms froze, his entire body going rigid at the action.

You had thought about this, of course, fantasized about it even, itching to put the man in his place as he threw tantrum after tantrum without consequence or remorse. 

Brahms had grown up without discipline, that much was clear to you, his parents choosing instead to lock him away within the walls and attic rather than deal with his explosive anger and concerning attitude towards others, out of sight and out of mind.

You had been incredibly patient up until this point, tolerating the outbursts and occasional death threat, having yet to actually lay hands on the man with an actual punishment in mind.

The second slap was just as hard if not harder than the first, and you could feel your palm stinging.

There was no protest from Brahms, no whining, and you took this as a sign that you had gotten his attention. You brought one hand up to grasp the back of his neck, pressing him downwards until his chest connected with the ornately carved wood that made up the back of the vintage sofa.

Brahms was boneless under your hands, pliant as he allowed you to maneuver him where you wanted him. His breathing was hard, his chest rising and falling heavily, a noticeable blush creeping across his collarbone and up his neck to disappear under his mask.

Your hand slipped from the back of his neck to trail the length of his spine then, fingers dancing across the warm wool of his cardigan.

His pants and underwear came down easily, and you dragged them to rest halfway down his thigh, rubbing an appreciative hand over the swell of his ass. You could hear his breath hitch as you flipped the hem of his cardigan up so it rested on his lower back, heard his breath stutter in his throat as your hand dropped lower, scratching up the back of his pale thighs with sharp nails. 

This was the Brahms that was your favorite, the submissive one, docile and still like a kitten that had been caught by the scruff of its neck.

You moved to his side, one hand finding the unruly tangle of his greasy curls, content merely to run your fingers through it for a moment before gripping it suddenly, hard enough to have him gasping and moving his head in your direction to loosen the tension.

The steady rise and fall of your hand as it connected again and again with bare skin of Brahms’s ass was loud, completely drowning out the sound of the grandfather clock as it ticked some ten feet away, the only other sound in the room besides Brahms’s harsh breathing.

Your entire hand was red by now, aching, perhaps more red than than the flesh of Brahms’s ass as he remained bent obediently, fingers clenching the back of the carved sofa in his white knuckled grip.

This continued for some time -a glance at the clock had told you that it had been nearly fifteen minutes at this point- the sharp slap of your skin on his enough to have him writhing under you.

After a particularly hard strike, you watched as the man cracked finally, diving long fingers between him and the furniture to wrap his hand around his leaking member.

“Ah ah~” you said, catching his wrist easily in your hand and stilling his movements. “Naughty boys don’t get release.”

He made a broken sound then, twisting his hand within yours and bringing long fingers to your wrist. “Please,” he begged desperately. “Please, I’ll be good- I’ll be so good for you, I promise.”

“Will you get in the shower?” You asked. Your hand found his hair again and you jerked him back against you none too gently, his back pressed now to your chest and his neck arched backwards.

“I’ll do anything!”

“Good boy, Brahms,” you cooed. You reached around his body then, wrapping your fingers around his length. pleased when the man made a strangled sound low in his throat and arched wildly, thrusting forward into your hand. You began to stroke him slowly, teasingly, your body draped along the length of his back as he pressed backwards against you. You moved your hand from his hair then, sliding it against his throat and pressing your palm flush to his Adam’s apple, using the action as leverage to pull him closer.

He came suddenly and with a groan, hips stuttering forward as his slick seed coated your fingers. 

There was a moment then where he simply stood there, shoulders still hunched over the back of the sofa with his chest heaving as he came down from his high. Brahms gave a sigh behind his mask as he turned to you, arms wrapping around you to pull you against him as he buried his face in the top of your head. 

You allowed this, standing patiently as he nuzzled and pressed against you, needy.

But only for a moment.

“Now, about that shower, Brahms.”